


The Bird and Her Beast Sansan Beauty and Beast AU

by KylaBosch



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, game of thrones
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaBosch/pseuds/KylaBosch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Game of Thrones take on the classic tale Beauty and the Beast by Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont. *Adult!Sansa/Sandor* Rated T for violence/foul language and dark themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Legend Begins

_There are no winds like the gales of winter._

His Father's voice whispered in the wind as Eddard struggled to guide his courser through the cutting white wall of snow. The wind had transformed the soft flakes of snow into blades of ice that pierced through his heavy furs, chilling his flesh to the bone. He knew not which way he was headed, for in the eye of a winter storm, direction had no place. Knowing that only death awaited those who sought to rest, Eddard forwent setting up camp. The warrior and his horse continued their fight to gain ground against the bitter winds. Silently, he prayed to the old gods for strength, and for the safety of his family who waited many miles away for his return.

Winter had come six years prior and with it came its constant companions: disease, famine and death. His son, Bran, had been the first in his house to be consumed by the chill. His beloved, Catelyn, and their youngest, Rickon, had fared better, but in the end their fires too were snuffed out by winter's cold touch. Arya, a squire to Brienne of Tarth many miles away, had been spared, along with his eldest children, Sansa and Robb.

Mourning the dead would not bring them back.

Eddard's thoughts turned to his sister's only son, Jon Snow. The young man still fought on the battlefronts of the north, leading the Nightswatch against the demonic white walkers. Having not heard word of him in a few moons Eddard uttered a prayer for his nephew as well, hoping he would survive the long night and see the coming of spring.

Dwelling on the unknown did not change the future either.

_"I don't have many supplies Ned, but you're welcome to whatever we can spare, and if that yellow haired idiot Jaime gives you any grief, you have my permission and my blessing to shut him up!"_

The memory his best friend's boisterous words did little to lighten Eddard's mood. Robert Baratheon was no small man by any means, yet he looked so frail and old upon their reunion. Winter had not been kind to his friend either. His children had fared better, but as with Eddard's own village, the struggle to stay alive was evident in everyone's eyes. There was little Robert could spare, but it had been enough, that was until the snowstorm had robbed Eddard of his cache.

There was also the matter of Sansa's betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon. Eddard had not travelled so far at the height of winter with the intent of marrying off his eldest daughter to his friend's eldest son. He only intended to continue the exchange of supplies between their two villages. Only at the insistence of Robert's wife, Cersei Lannister, had their agreement taken the drastic turn. Supplies would be provided to Winterfell on the condition that her boy would have Sansa's hand in marriage with the coming of spring.

Sansa was well known for her beauty and kind heart throughout Westeros. Despite being almost twenty years of age, Sansa would always remain his little girl. He did not relish the idea of giving her away, especially to the spoiled young man he saw upon his visit. But the arrangement was unavoidable, and he could only hope that his daughter would forgive him. Sansa had fancied the idea of marrying the boy before, and Eddard could only hope those feelings still remained.

_"No matter how noble the suitors, no men will ever be good enough for your girls Ned."_

Just beyond the blustering winds, Eddard heard the whisper of Catelyn's voice, just as he felt her hands, so gentle and warm, grasp the heavy leather glove on his free hand. Risking the icy blades of blowing snow, Eddard looked up and found himself staring into the eyes of his beloved Catelyn. He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by her warm gentle kiss.

 _Gods be good Ned, it has been far too long,_ she said as she guided him onwards with a smile. In silence the elder warrior followed her, and ahead of them Bran and Rickon laughed and played in the snow. No longer did the storm trouble him.

And as quickly as they arrived, they left, leaving Eddard Stark alone at the entrance of an aged, yet well-kept stable. The stables were empty, save for a rather large black destrier, who snorted and stomped his hooves in agitation at the sight of Ned's courser. Steering clear of the great war horse, Eddard tied and fed his horse with what rations he carried. He knew not where he was, but hoped the lord of the keep would forgive his boldness. The elder lord entered the halls of the grand keep in silence. There he sought ought servants or guards, anyone who could take him to the lord of the manor. There was not a soul to be found.

It was the scent of cooked food that drew him to the great hall. It had been two days since he had last ate a meal and his stomach growled in response to the rich smell of a feast. Ever proper, he waited in silence for the arrival of the lord or the lady of the keep. When the hour grew late and they still had not arrived, Eddard surrendered to his hunger. With great care he began to eat a little of the feast set before him. Mindful of his weakened state, he drank only water and left the rich sour red wine untouched. Upon having his fill, the elder lord departed to a nearby chamber where he immediately fell into a deep sleep.

In his dreams, it was spring and his family was whole again.

The storm had passed when Eddard awoke some hours later. Not wishing to impose any longer, the warrior gathered his cloak in preparation to depart when his eyes caught sight of a beautiful garden just beyond the windows of his chamber. It was a winter garden, filled with pale blue and white blossoms of the ever-rare ice roses. His eldest daughter, Sansa, had always been fascinated with the legends that surrounded the blooms. Her name day was rapidly approaching, and Ned had no gold or gifts to give her. It had been all but lost on his journey here. Longing to see his daughter's joy, he thought to grant her childhood wish to behold an ice rose. Eddard knew Sansa would cherish it more than any amount of extravagant name day gifts.

Surely a single rose would not be missed, he thought to himself as he slipped into the small garden beyond the courtyard. No sooner had his dagger severed a rose from its branch, then a deafening voice was heard from behind him.

'I saved your life by letting you into my keep and this is how you repay me?'

The being that towered over the warrior lord appeared to Eddard to be more beast than man. Clad entirely in black armour, and standing at almost seven feet, the creature was a sight to behold. Eddard, a seasoned warrior, was not a man easily disturbed, yet when he gazed upon the man's face, he could not ignore the sinking feeling of dread.

With eyes of grey, a nose that had clearly been broken and a dark beard, the giant man could have passed as a decent, if not a rough looking northerner, had it not been for the fact that only half of his face remained whole. While the right side of his face appeared as a man's face ought to, his left side was a horror about which tales were written. There was a twisted hole in place of one ear and around his eyes, the flesh was raw and puckered, carved with blood red cracks while craters of burn scars trailed down the side of his face to his lips. Not even his long black hair, haphazardly parted to cover the bare parts of his burned scalp, could conceal the severe damage fire had done. It was as though someone or something from the seven hells had touched his face.

Upon seeing the man's visage, only one name came to mind and with it, Eddard felt his heart stop. Standing before him was the legendary kinslayer Sandor Clegane, better known as The Hound to those fortunate enough to have met him, and lived to tell about it.

"Gather your sword and prepare yourself to die," the Hound growled.

Eddard lowered his dagger, but did not draw his blade. "My lord," Eddard said. "I beg your forgiveness, I did not mean to cause offense, nor did I seek to insult your generosity. The rose was meant only as a gift for my eldest daughter Sansa, whose name day is almost upon me."

"I am no Ser, nor am I a lord. Call me the Hound if you must, and spare me your empty flatteries," the man rasped. Eddard did not have a chance to respond before the scarred man broke the silence again. "Your child, how old will she be?"

"She will be twenty on her name day," Eddard answered in a guarded tone. The Hound considered his words.

"I'll spare you your life, but only if you bring me your daughter a month from this day. I want to see this girl you are so willing to sacrifice your precious honour, and life for. Refuse me, and we will end this properly. Play me for a fool and I will hunt you down, and cut you from gut to gullet,' the Hound warned.

Eddard had no intention of letting the kinslayer near his daughter. If this was to be his punishment, he would face it without hesitation, for a soldier was bred to die. Nevertheless, he was grateful to be able to see his children one last time before he was to face the Hound's blade. Swearing an oath on his honour, Eddard Stark promised to return within the month. Sensing that the minor lord spoke only the truth, the Hound took him at his word and permitted him leave. "In your chamber there is a large chest. Fill it with whatever you need, be it food or supplies and it will be sent to your village," the great beast said before departing in silence, leaving a troubled Eddard Stark in his wake. Eddard knew no amount of food, or coin would protect his daughter should the Hound turn back on his word.

* * *

**Author's Note:** In this universe the three great houses mentioned (House Stark, Lannister and Baratheon) are now merely minor lords whom have no claim/chance at the throne, so as to fit into the concept of Beauty and Beast. Outside of that little else is different in Westeros =D


	2. Where The Winter Winds Blow

* * *

_Sansa could feel the winds blowing from the north under a sky heavy with the clouds of winter. Surrounding her, tall autumn grass bowed to the whims of the strong breeze, causing the soft stems to brush against her fingers. In the distance a little girl with raven hair in a dress of blue was running through the field, laughing as she went._

'Come play with me!' the little girl called back to Sansa as a smile lit up her small face. Curiosity piqued, the young maiden followed the child. As the young girl skipped ahead, Sansa silently followed. She knew what lay ahead, but for the first time she felt no trepidation. Approaching the small clearing in the midst of the grasslands Sansa saw the great beast from her nightmares.

Towering over her, the enormous black hound stared at the young maiden with eyes of ashen grey. Its visage was terrifying to behold. Only the right half of its face remained whole. The other half of its face was covered with burns scars, rendering its features unrecognizable, save for the razor sharp teeth that peered through the marred flesh. Only the tip of its nose and left eye remained intact.

The sight of the creature robbed Sansa of her courage; it reminded her of the Stranger, the visage of death. Yet when she met the great beast's gaze her fear slipped away. In its eyes she saw more than just blind rage; she saw its sorrow and was filled with compassion. In silence she approached, her eyes never wavering beneath the beast's stare. Gently, she reached out to caress the patched fur behind its right ear. Leaning into her touch, the giant hound closed its eyes as a low whine escaped its damaged mouth. Sansa knew he would cause her no harm.

The young woman awoke with a start alone in her bedchambers. As she caught her breath, Sansa realized the vision from her childhood had returned. For years she had been haunted by the horrifying image of the damaged hound. The vision was always the same, from the autumn grass and the coming of winter, to the mysterious little girl and the great beast that waited for her with eyes filled with rage and sadness. In the past she would awake screaming and crying for her father, but today the dream had changed. She was no longer afraid.

It was duty that brought Sansa out of bed so early, but it was the sound of her father's voice that drew her to the Great Hall. Filled with joy and relief at the sight of him, Sansa eagerly embraced the elder lord, all the while chastising her brother, Robb, for not waking her upon his arrival. Only Eddard's troubled expression threatened to ruin Sansa's joy.

'Is something the matter? Are you hurt?' she asked.

'No, I'm fine,' her father assured her. The elder man's smile did not quite reach his sad eyes. 'I've a little something for you, for your name day,' he explained, before presenting her with a flower that Sansa had only seen in her mother's book of fairytales.

'An ice rose?' she exclaimed in shock. 'I did not think they were real, but only a legend. Oh thank you father, how did you come upon it?' Graciously, she accepted the small blue and white rose. Despite her joy, her heart remained troubled by the weight she saw in her father's eyes. Something had happened during his journey, something her father clearly did not wish to discuss. It was at Robb's insistence that the elder lord broke his silence.

Breathing a heavy sigh Lord Stark spoke to them of the winter storm and how the spirits of their mother and youngest brothers had guided him to the dark keep.

'…There I saw a beautiful garden filled with these blooms. I thought of you Sansa, your love of the old tales and I could not resist. In my haste I plucked this rose and was met by the lord of the keep. My actions had caused him great offense, now I must to return to the keep within the month where we'll duel to the death.'

Sansa's eyes filled with unshed tears, her heart sinking in response to her father's confession. No amount of the legendary ice roses was worth her Father's life.

'Who is this man who makes such a demand over something as trivial as a rose?' Robb demanded in anger. Suddenly Sansa understood that there was more to her father's careful words.

'Father, I have endured an attack from the Others, starvation, an endless winter, as well as the loss of my little brothers and mother. The truth, no matter how terrifying it may be, no longer frightens me. Speak what it is you wish to tell my brother, and I will decide for myself if I can face it,' Sansa said in quiet tones.

Bowing his head the elder lord closed his eyes; Sansa could see his lips moving in silent prayer. Facing his children again Eddard Stark spoke. 'I cannot do as he asks.'

'And what is it that he asks?' Sansa said in gentle tones as she held Eddard's gaze.

'His lordship desires that I bring you with me upon my return so that he might meet you.' Her father's words hung heavy in Sansa's thoughts, leaving her silent and contemplative. Furious by the possible implications, her brother, Robb, spoke without thought.

'Who is this cretin? How dare he make such demands! I will run him through!'

'You cannot, and you will not, my son. Sandor Clegane has destroyed warriors far more seasoned than you!' Eddard warned.

'Father, let me join you. His lordship seeks my presence; surely he will grant me his ear. Let me reason with the man,' her words came unbidden to her lips, and with it, a courage Sansa never believed she had. Her father would not die on her behalf.

'The man's a kinslayer and a rapist!' Robb began in disbelief.

'Though the first is true, you cannot know the second for certain, Robb. Aye, he kills without discretion, but he does not have the makings of a rapist. That I can say for certain,' their Father said with a frown, 'I swore an oath to Lord Clegane that I would face him within the month. I will not back down on my word.

'You will not start a war on my account Robb, nor will I place your life at risk, Sansa. I have already lost your mother, and your brothers. I cannot bear to lose you both as well. I am a soldier, I learned how to die a long time ago.' he explained in soft tones. Sansa's heart ached - never before had she seen her Father looking so aged and worn. Yet there was a weight to his words that she could not readily ignore. Sansa sensed that she stood at a turning point; something important was about to transpire. She could not say what, but she was certain her life was about to be forever changed by it. She knew if she spoke now, there would be no turning back.

The air felt heavy and thick with anticipation as Sansa attempted to gather her courage. She hoped that her Father's assessment was accurate, for she had no desire to negotiate with a kinslayer, nor a rapist. Yet she could not stand by and allow her Father to perish, not when she could prevent it. Her hands shook as she broke the silence, her voice barely audible in the vast room. 'I will meet with this Lord Clegane as he has asked of you, Father. I would rather he spare your life, than live with the knowledge that I let you perish due to half-truths and my fear of the unknown.' Immediately, Sansa was drawn into her Father's tight embrace. She knew her Father wanted none of this, but Sansa also knew the matter would be discussed no further.

The following morning Sansa watched as Eddard Stark gave Robb the legendary Valyrian steel blade, Ice that had once belonged to their forefathers. The sword represented more than the passing of leadership from father to son, it held the power of life and death to all who lived in the north. Sansa knew her Father was certain it would be his final journey. She prayed to the gods, both old and new, that he would be proven wrong. Saying farewell to Robb for what she hoped would not be the last time, Sansa and her Father departed with heavy hearts for Clegane Keep, with only their horses and Sansa's dire wolf, Lady, for company.


	3. A Deal is Struck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** This chapter has some foul language (Sandor's potty mouth) and brief mention of (rumoured) rape.

There were no storms, nor Others, nor threats of any kind throughout their long journey. Only the bitter cold greeted them. Pearly white snow covered the landscape like a cloak, causing everything beneath the sun to sparkle like frozen crystals. On such days, it was all too easy to forget how cruel and merciless winter could be.

Sansa's father spoke not a word of the lord she was to meet; the young woman spoke even less of the matter as they journeyed south.

As they approached the aged keep, Sansa took note of the large tattered banners that snapped viciously in the winter winds; three black dogs stood guard against the backdrop of bright yellow. The sight reminded Sansa of the vision that had haunted her since childhood. The dream's meaning still evaded her, but she was certain there was a connection. Upon reaching the entrance, an old maester garbed in a tattered black cloak and wearing a chain of links approached them in greeting.

Not another soul was seen as he guided their horses to the stables.

'If it pleases my lord, I would suggest you both remain outside the stalls. His lordship's horse, Stranger, does not take kindly to unfamiliar faces, or horses for that matter,' the elderly man explained. They complied without question. While Eddard's courser was kept a safe distance away; the black destrier remained indifferent to Sansa's mare, much to the old man's surprise.

Sansa along with her Father and her dire wolf followed the old man as he guided them through the small keep. Though aged, the small fortress was well kept despite appearing devoid of life. As they approached the solar the elder man informed them that they were to meet with the lord of the keep alone. With much reluctance Sansa permitted him to keep watch over Lady. As they entered the solar, she could almost hear the voice of her deceased septa whispering in her ears.

_A lady's courtesy is her greatest armour._

The solar was small and spartan; with two yellow banners with dogs hanging on either side of the entrance, little else decorated the dark grey walls. In the room's center, sat a large wooden table set with hot food and wine. At the far end a large fire crackled and burned within the confines of a hearth; in front of it stood a giant of a man. Even with his back turned, and his body hidden by the cover of a black cloak, there was little doubt in Sansa's mind that they were in the presence of Lord Clegane.

'I had half expected you not to return,' the scarred lord rasped in greeting. His voice reminded Sansa more of a dog's growl, than of a man's baritone. He turned to face them then, his visage momentarily hidden by the shadows of the dimly lit room. 'So Lord Stark, did the girl come of her own accord? Or were you too craven to face me yourself?' the man then mocked as he approached. Sansa pretended not to see her father's hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

'You gave me your word, Ser, that you sought to meet my daughter, nothing more,' Eddard answered.

'I also told you not to call me Ser, or Lord, or any other of those damned titles!' The giant man warned.

_No, he is the Hound,_ Sansa thought as her eyes fell upon the man's marred features. The man who stood before her was none other than the scar faced dog from her visions. Recalling the creature's gentle behaviour towards her, Sansa hoped their fears were unfounded. Still, she prayed that Lord Clegane would bring no harm to her father.

'My Father is no coward. The decision was mine alone to make,' Sansa spoke. Her voice sounded soft even to her own ears.

'You're a brave one, aren't you?' the man mocked. The sneer he wore did not reach his grey eyes. 'You like what you see? Such a handsome fellow I make, don't I? Just like those stupid knights from those songs I'm sure you love so much!' Sansa lowered her gaze as her cheeks burned. She did not bother to reply, for silence held wisdom of its own. 'Look at me,' he rasped, not amused by her silence. Sansa's eyes flickered to his face but the rage she saw robbed her of all courage.

'Look at me!' the Hound roared as his calloused fingers grasped Sansa's chin forcing her face close to his own. From the corner of her eyes Sansa saw her father drawing his blade and knew she had to act before it was too late.

'I see a seasoned warrior; one who has fought many battles,' Sansa politely answered as she held the Hound's furious gaze. 'I also see a man who will not hurt me.' Her words were directed not only at the great beast of a man, but her father as well. With reluctance, Eddard Stark sheathed his large blade, just as the Hound withdrew his hand, straightening to his full height.

'Must have made some septa proud with all that chirping of yours; always singing sweet songs that don't mean a damn thing,' the scarred man mocked with a sneer. Sansa knew better than to respond.

'Come with me, girl,' the Hound said as he turned towards the fireplace at the other end of the room. Granting her father a look of reassurance, Sansa joined the Hound's side where he stood by the hearth.

'So tell me, little bird, do you only know how to sing pretty songs, or do you have talons beneath those wings of yours ?' The Hound said as she approached.

_A proper lady does not look away when being spoken to-_

Her septa's words replayed in her mind as Sansa struggled to meet the Hound's stormy gaze.

'My pardons Ser?' she asked, uncertain why he hated her so.

'Are you stupid girl? I already told you I am no knight. I piss on them and their vows. Call me the Hound, or even Dog if you must, but do not call me Ser! Now answer the damn question!' he growled.

Sansa fought back the urge to shrink at his ferocity. Though she did not consider herself brave, Sansa knew how to play the part when necessary. 'I am a child of winter, and the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. I am also a lady, and I demand that you speak to me as such,' she replied in firm tones. The scarred man's mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile as he laughed. Terrified, and insulted, Sansa straightened her back and held his gaze as best she could. A lady did not show fear.

'So, the little bird has wolf blood in her after all!' the scarred man said as he took a seat at the nearby table. He motioned her to sit down as well; Sansa politely complied.

'I trust a woman of your age has had some experience managing a keep,' he said after a moment's pause.

'Since my mother's passing four years prior, I have been maintaining the affairs of my father's keep,' she admitted.

'Has your lord husband no lands of his own for you to manage?' the Hound asked.

'I have not yet been wedded my lord,' Sansa reluctantly clarified. It was apparent that he mistook her for a widow.

The giant man snorted in reply. 'Your father claims that it will be your twentieth name day soon, yet you expect me to believe that you have not been wed? A dog can always smell a lie little bird, and you are a terrible liar,' he warned.

'I speak the truth, my lord,' Sansa stammered in reply. 'I was still a child when winter came upon us. When I became a maiden, there were more pressing matters to attend to than the exchange of my hand.

'I am betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon; we are to be wed with the coming of spring.' She quickly added. The thought of discussing something so personal and with a strange man no less, was humiliating. The Hound cared little for her embarrassment. His eyes flashed bright with rage and disgust, as though her words had somehow deeply offended him. The scarred man moved towards the fireplace, where he rested a large hand against the ledge over the stone hearth for a moment. Sansa arose from her seat, uncertain what to make of the man's anger or what she had done to deserve it.

'I have need for a woman with your skills and I will pay your house handsomely with food and supplies for it,' the Hound said, his back still turned to her.

_The man's a kinslayer and a rapist!_

Behind him, Sansa stared in horror and disbelief as Robb's warning surfaced in her thoughts. What exactly was he propositioning?

'I'm guessing your father will want to use it to ensure your village survives this shit winter,' the Hound continued, as he turned back to pour himself a large glass of wine. He emptied the glass in a single swallow.

'And what skills does my lord require of me?' Sansa asked, unable to hide the concern from her voice.

'I'm not asking for your hand in marriage girl, I want you to run this fucking keep! Do this, and I will spare your father's life in return. Now will you accept or not?' The Hound growled in frustration as he faced her. Unable to look away or respond Sansa simply stared at him. In her mind's eye, she stood not before the man, but the scar-faced Hound from her dreams. In the man's eyes she saw both rage and sorrow.

_You will not hurt me,_ Sansa thought to herself.

'I will do as you ask, my lord,' she whispered, breaking the heavy silence that hung between them.  
The Hound gave a hint of a nod before returning to where her father stood waiting; Sansa immediately followed.

'The matter has been settled. Your daughter will remain here as we have discussed. Supplies and food will be sent to your village in exchange for her services,' the Hound began as he approached the elder lord.

'How dare you make such claims?' Eddard balked upon hearing the scarred man's statement; his eyes flashed in rage as he drew his blade. 'Do you take me for a man wholly without honour? My daughter will not stay here under any circumstances!'

The Hound snorted in response, as he swiftly drew his own sword. 'So be it then.'

Sansa's eyes grew wide with terror as she rushed forward, placing herself between the two warriors. 'Father, please you must not do this! It is not as you think!' she quickly stammered out. Eddard continued to glare up at the Hound. The beastly man readily returned her father's hard stare.

Grasping her father's arms, Sansa pleaded with him. 'Lord Clegane has done no wrong. He has made this arrangement with me, and I have agreed. He has promised to provide our village with ample food and supplies, enough to make it through the winter! All he desires is that I maintain the affairs of this keep. Please Father; do not throw your life, or the lives of our smallfolk, away over a misunderstanding!'

Eddard scowled at the scarred man as he reluctantly lowered his weapon. Meeting his daughter's troubled gaze the elder lord breathed a heavy sigh. 'Your heart is as gentle, as it is pure, Sansa. I know you mean well, but you know nothing of this man, or what he is capable of doing. The Hound is not a man of honour, I beg you to please reconsider this decision you have made,' he said.

'If Lord Clegane lacks honour as you say, then what is to keep him from claiming me should he kill you?' she pleaded. Sansa ignored the Hound who gave a snort in disgust. 'You once taught Robb and I that sacrifices must be made in order to ensure the lives and safety of our people. Without food and supplies, everyone in the village will die long before this winter is over. Robb is a good and true lord, but he is still ruled by his emotions. He needs your guidance, Father,' she whispered, 'and so do I.'

Her father's expression fell making him look far older than his years. 'What of Joffrey Baratheon? What of your betrothal to him?' Eddard quietly asked.

'That nasty little shit isn't worthy of wiping the mud off the girl's boots, much less be her lord husband,' the Hound said from where he stood behind Sansa. 'My men found the supplies you lost during the snow storm. I'd suggest returning it to Lord Baratheon, along with the refusal of your daughter's hand in marriage. Use me as an excuse if you must. The Lannisters may be lions, but even they aren't fool enough to cross a pack of dogs.'

Unaware of either Lady Baratheon's involvements in the marriage arrangements, or her reputation of being a woman who never kept her word , Sansa looked to her father for an explanation. Eddard spoke not a word; instead he sheathed his sword and drew her into a tight embrace. In his arms she could feel the weight of her father's sorrow, and it broke her heart.

The feast that was set on the table had been prepared for them, but neither Father nor daughter had much appetite to enjoy it. In the morning Sansa said her farewells to her father with unshed tears and a heavy heart. Neither was certain that they would ever see each other again Sansa hoped with the coming of spring, the gods would be merciful, and restore her to her family. No matter what was to come she would face the winter bravely, for she was a Stark and this was her destiny.


	4. Ice-Rose Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Foul Language and brief image of gore.
> 
>  **Beta Readers:** A huge thank you goes to weshallflyaway for your advice and your help, ensuring this tale more than a piece of tripe. I owe you so much!

It was the day after her father's departure that Sansa once again dreamed of the scarred hound, the black haired girl and the autumn yellow grass. Now it was she who stood in the clearing as the little girl approached; the large black dog by her side.

'Your sacrifice has been noted, daughter of the wolf,' the little girl said. 'Your compassion will not be without its reward.' At those words the child slipped away into the tall grasses, leaving Sansa alone with the great beast. Unafraid, the young woman approached the scarred hound and wrapped her arms around his massive throat. The war beast gently nuzzled its scarred face against her neck, its breath warm against her cheek.

The young maiden awoke to find that she was not in her room back home, rather in an elegant bedchamber that had been prepared for her the day before. It took but a moment to recall where she was, and all what had transpired the day before.

Sansa recalled the sorrow she had seen in her father's eyes, the weight of his silence. She knew it broke his heart to watch helpless as his eldest daughter sacrificed her freedom and her future for him. No amount of assurances or words of hope could lighten his spirit. Sansa peered out the window of her bedchamber, as her fingers wrapped around a small obsidian arrowhead that hung from the silver chain on her throat. It had been her father's final gift to her.

 _Wear it always, for the winter is upon us and one never knows what the night will bring,'_ he whispered as he pulled her into a tight embrace. With those words Sansa's father had kissed her brow and taken his leave; he never looked back.

With her dire-wolf Lady by her side, Sansa had watched as her father and his steed disappeared into the blustering winter snow. It was some time before the young woman returned to Clegane Keep, where she confined herself to her bedchambers; there she remained till the following morning.

The young maiden awoke with a heavy heart for she missed her family deeply and feared for her father's safety. Though she knew it to be foolishness, a part of Sansa desired nothing more than to remain hidden away in her bedchambers till the coming of spring; her dire-wolf, Lady, felt otherwise.

Having been awake long before Sansa the dire-wolf peered out the window to the gardens far below; her tail wagging eagerly as she stood on her hind legs; her front paws resting on the sill. Looking back to the young maiden, Lady gave a short whine and a bark. Curious as to the reason for Lady's unusual behaviour, Sansa studied the gardens intently; she wondered what had caught her wolf's attention. Far below, the old maester tended to the ice roses; there was not another soul to be seen.

Unsatisfied by Sansa's lack of response, Lady began to bark loudly as she rushed to the door of the maiden's bedchambers. Instinctively, Sansa went to collect her cloak and boots for she believed the dire-wolf needed to make water. There she caught sight of the lock on the heavy wooden door, it was open. A chill ran down her spine for the maiden knew it was locked the night before. Suddenly, the sound of a child's laughter was heard just beyond the shut door.

'Hello?' Sansa called out. Beside her, Lady continued to bark and whine as she pawed at the wooden door. With caution the young maiden peered out into the dimly lit hallways. At first Sansa saw not a soul, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness she caught sight of a small fleeting form; it was the child from her dreams. Her dire-wolf cared not for the mysterious child and raced off without hesitation, leaving the young woman alone in her nightshift.

'Lady, wait!' she frantically called out as she quickly grabbed her cloak and her boots. Stepping out into the hallway Sansa continued to call out for her dire-wolf. Lady was nowhere to be found but the girl's laughter could still be heard, along with the pattering of a child's footsteps. Picking up her skirts the young woman ran down the halls, feeling both childish and foolish for it. Sansa could almost imagine Arya teasing her for behaving in such an unladylike fashion.

The passageways of Clegane keep was large and winding, leaving Sansa fearful of getting lost. The little girl continued to remain two steps ahead, her small form just out of reach. Hopeful that Lady was tracking the child, Sansa followed the child until she found herself in the midst of the ice-rose garden. There seated in front of a stone monument sat her dire-wolf watching Sansa intently with her head tilted in curiosity. The little black-haired girl was nowhere to be found. Nor were there any prints in the fresh snow to reveal her whereabouts.

'My lady, what brings you here at this early hour?' Sansa whirled around upon hearing the old maester's voice.

'My pardon's Maester , have you seen a little girl? She wore a blue dress, and had black hair. I believe she may have been six or seven years of age?' Sansa stammered. 'I meant not to frighten her, but Lady got excited and tried to chase her,' she explained.

'I once believed I was the only one who could see her; it would now seem that I was wrong,' the old man replied with a sad smile.

'Who was she?' Sansa politely asked. The old maester's continued to tend the roses in silence. 'Please good Maester at least tell me where she went? The winter cold is no place for a young child,' she pressed on.

'Neither is it for a lady, clad in only her nightshift and a cloak,' the old man gently chastised, causing Sansa's cheeks to burn red. Instinctively, Sansa tightened her cloak around her form, only then did she feel the cold air and the bustling winter winds.

'My pardons, I'll be going now,' Sansa murmured, feeling entirely inappropriate and foolish for having raced through the keep like some wildling, dressed only in her cloak and nightshift. Turning away, the maiden called Lady to her side.

'Do not worry about the child my lady. She is resting now, in these very gardens,' the maester spoke out; his back turned away from her. 'Her brother, his lordship, had these gardens built to honour her memory.' Sansa felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle at the revelation. The little girl she had seen was no living child, but a restless spirit, the very spirit who had haunted her dreams.

'I was unaware,' she softly replied, feeling utterly grateful for Lady's presence by her side. Her eyes continued to scan the gardens; she half expected the child spirit to emerge from the bushes of ice-roses.

Instead, Sansa saw something far more terrifying.

Stepping back in horror the young lady gave a sharp gasp as her eyes fixated on the object of her terror. Far above on the stone wall overlooking the bushes of ice roses was a man's head; half-eaten, half-rotted, and firmly mounted on a rusted old pike.

'Oh no—no!' she began the words thick in her throat. Sansa could not look away as panic held her frozen in place. The elder maester moved to guide her away but it was the heavy weight of the Hound's gloved hand on her shoulder that brought Sansa back with a start.

'Are you so easily frightened girl, that a mere touch makes you shake?' Sandor rasped. The young maiden tightened her cloak around herself; entirely aware of her lack of proper dress.

'Forgive me, I meant no offense,' Sansa softly said struggling to hold the scarred man's gaze. It was not the man's face that had robbed her of all courage, rather the image of the half rotted and eaten head. _You, Sansa, are a child of winter and you are your father's daughter. No matter what form the winter may take, I know you will have the courage to face it bravely,_ her mother's voice whispered in her thoughts. Sansa found strength in her mother's memory and spoke. 'My lor-'the young woman recalled the man's warning and tried again. 'Who—who was that man? What was his crime that he should deserve such a fate?' she quietly asked. To Sansa's immense relief, her voice did not shake.

Sandor snorted in reply. 'That was no man, but a beast I put down. My _heroic_ brother Ser Gregor Clegane; the _Mountain that Rides._ The _noble_ knight who died protecting some nameless girl's virtue from the likes of me,' Sandor sneered in disgust. 'And if you believe that Lannister tale of shit, then you're an even bigger fool than I took you for.'

Sansa stared at Sandor in disbelief and horror. What sort of man killed his own brother and so proudly boasted of his accomplishment! What sort of beast so boldly defiled the dead in a garden meant to honour the sleeping?

Sandor took one look at her and began to laugh. His laughter reminded her of dog's snarling. 'Frighten you do I, girl? Thought you northerners were made of thicker skin than that!' he mocked with a twisted smirk. 'One day I'll tell you the real story of my _noble_ brother's demise; not the glorified jape Lord Lannister spewed when he found my brother's head rolling about in the mud, and his body twitching at my feet .'

'What sort of life have you endured, that you would take pleasure in such hateful things?' The words came unbidden, spilling from her lips before the young maiden had the chance to take them back. All of her courage slipped away with the winter winds leaving Sansa alone, shivering, and small before the towering Hound. To her immense relief, Sandor neither mocked, nor raged against her.

Approaching the dire-wolf the scar-faced man gently scratched Lady behind her ears. The large wolf leaned into his touch, her tail wagging in contentment. Sansa knew Lady to be an excellent judge of character; her acceptance of Sandor spoke volumes.

When their eyes met, Sansa saw a weight and sorrow in his gaze that came only to those who had endured horrors that no man should ever know. The Hound was the first to look away.

'The little bird is shivering,' he rasped as he faced the old maester. 'Take her inside and have the servants prepare her a hot bath. Can't have the Lady of the Keep catching the chill now can we?' he growled. With a gentle smile, the elderly maester briefly touched the back of Sansa's upper arm so as to guide her inside. The maiden departed without another word, leaving Sandor alone with his thoughts.

By nightfall, Gregor's head no longer overlooked the garden of ice roses; it was never seen again.


	5. The Truth Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Foul Language and the brief mention of non-con/rape with minor as well as violence.
> 
>  **Author's note:** There is a line at the end of this chapter (you'll know it when you reach it) that has been paraphrased from the original tale of Beauty and the Beast. I really loved the line and could not resist trying to make it my own because I felt it really summed up Sansa's view of Sandor. However, it is very much influenced/referenced to Ms. LePrince's words and thus belongs/should be referenced/credited to her.

It had been three days since the incident in the rose gardens; and as long since Sansa had last seen the lord of the Keep. Though she did not see him, the young maiden could almost feel his presence watching her from a distance. Uncertain what to make of his absence, she spent her days learning what she could of Clegane Keep. Given her new duties she felt it proper to learn the routines and traditions of those who called it home. With the elder maester as her guide, Sansa met the different men, women and children who served as Lord Clegane's smallfolk. To her surprise, the smallfolk readily accepted her presence and were eager to assist her in any fashion they could. Everyone she met went out of their way make her feel at home in the old castle .

By nightfall, Sansa had completed her extended tour of the old keep. Though exhausted, the young maiden felt more at peace with her situation and her surroundings. Still, her thoughts remained with her father travelling home, and her family many miles away. As she dressed for dinner, Sansa thought to inquire of the old maester about the location of a godswood. She hoped that one still remained within the region, for they were rare in the south. Sansa longed to pray to the old gods for her father's safety, and for the protection of her family.

Dressed in her favourite gown, Sansa left her room to sup, recalling the time three days ago when she had departed for the great hall where dinner had previously been served. A maidservant had politely explained that her meal was served in the solar. 'His lordship, the Hound, felt you would feel more comfortable dining in the solar, Milady.' she said. Truthfully, Sansa would have preferred eating in the hall with the smallfolk; at least she would have had company. A lady was always respectful of others wishes. So the young maiden ate alone, and did so for the next two days.

Today, Sansa arrived to the spartan solar and found a great feast awaiting her. To her surprise the Hound was also there; seated a distance away from the hearth, with a large mug of wine in hand and a near empty flagon in front of him. She noted that he was seated so as to hide the marred part of his face from her. Immediately, Sansa was filled with sorrow and compassion to the gesture.

'Good evening to you,' the young maiden said with a proper courtesy and a polite smile on her lips. The scarred man merely gave a nod and drank deeply from his cup.

The meal was as fine as the supper she had shared with her father the night before. There was even a large dish filled with good meat on the floor for her dire-wolf to enjoy. Though grateful for his hospitality, the young maiden felt badly for inconveniencing him and his household. 'I am grateful to you for your kindness, but it is not necessary to trouble yourself for my sake. I am a minor lord's daughter; undeserving of such extravagance,' she said. 'If it pleases you, I would be just as comfortable dining with your household in the hall, as I am dining here with you now.'

The Hound chuckled in reply; his laughter raw and harsh. 'Bugger that. What do you know of my men, girl?' he rasped. 'It has been months since they've been in the presence of a real woman; not those back alley whores who visit the keep from time to time. The moment they set their eyes on you the lot of them will turn into a bunch of halfwits, and I'll be forced to run them through. Now be a good little bird, quit your chirping and eat.'

Sansa's cheeks burned at his words. She could tell he was well into his cups, despite the early hour of evening. _Surely he spoke merely in jest,_ she thought in concern. Reminded of the rotted head that sat on the pike in the ice-rose gardens Sansa swallowed hard. If the Hound was the most _noble_ of his fighting men, what did it say of the others? The maiden felt a chill run down her spine. What sort of prison had she willingly stepped into?

 _A lady should always be willing to hear both sides of every story. For somewhere in between them lays the truth._ Septa Mordane's memory whispered in her thoughts. With a deep breath, Sansa forced her thoughts clear and buried her fears.

'Does the little bird sing?' the Hound suddenly asked. Having no desire to provoke the scarred man as she had unwittingly done three days prior the maiden gave a nod and remained silent.

'Of course you can,' he murmured, clearly lost in thought. The man fell silent, but Sansa could feel his gaze watching her intently as though seeking an answer only her soul knew.

'Will you sing for me?' he quietly asked, breaking the long and heavy silence that had settled between them. The young maiden felt her cheeks warm upon hearing the man's hesitant, yet unexpected request. As a girl, Sansa had often sung sweet tunes about noble knights and fair maids. Her mother used to marvel at the beauty of her voice while Rickon often begged her to sing him just one more song before he went to bed. Even Bran used to enjoy hearing her sing haunting tales of magic and mystery. The gift of song, once a blessing that made her spirit soar, now made her heart heavy with the memories of those she had loved and lost. Though she desired to appease the Hound, the long winter had robbed her memory of the music she once knew and loved.

In winter there were no happy tales to be sung; songs were for the summer.

'I beg your pardons, but regretfully, I must decline. I cannot lie; it has been many a year since I have sung any song. I fear I no longer can recall the songs of my childhood,' Sansa softly apologized.

'What sort of fool do you take me for girl? All good little birds are taught to sing pretty little songs and chirp sweet words on command,' the Hound growled. 'I will have my song, one way or another,' he warned as he raised his mug to his scarred lips and took a long drink of wine.

Sansa felt a rush of fear come over her as Robb's warning echoed in her thoughts. In her mind's eye she could see Ser Gregor's rotted head staring at her with black holes for eyes. She shuddered at the memory.

'What are you afraid of, girl?' the Hound said. Sansa struggled to meet the man's stormy gaze. 'A dog can always smell fear and you reek of it,' he growled. Lady brushed her head against Sansa's elbow, affirming the man's statement. The dire-wolf's silent assurance eased a little of the maiden's fear, but none of her concern. A man deep within his cups always made for unpredictable company; especially a man the likes of the Hound.

'What happened to the brave little bird that faced me in the gardens? Can't bear to look at me anymore? Had your fill have you?' he rasped in agitation.

'No my-' Sansa caught herself before she spoke his title and tried again; she prayed to the old gods and new that her voice would not waver. She did not wish to anger the man further.

'It is not your face I fear; it is your actions and your words that frighten me,' she admitted in soft tones. The Hound fell silent as if considering her words. Sansa was both watchful and wary of his response.

'You never asked me why I did it,' he rasped as he finished his mug of wine. 'Or do you really believe what they say about me?' Sansa did not know how to answer him; behind every tale was a kernel of truth.

 _He does not have the makings of a rapist. That I can say for certain._ The echo of her father's words replayed in her mind, she could only pray that he was right.

For a moment the fire in the Hound's eyes waned, revealing emotions she had seen once before in his gaze; as before, it was there and then gone as he promptly looked away.

'My brother, now there was a _noble_ knight,' he began with a snort, reaching for another large flagon of wine. Popping off the cork he drank deeply straight from the bottle. At the far end of the room the maiden caught sight of the maester's small frown. Sansa was not the only one troubled by the Hound's inebriated state.

'They claim Gregor died a hero; defending some cunt's virtue from my hand, during one of Lord Tywin Lannister's stupid winter campaigns,' Sandor said with a frown as he took a long drink from his flagon. 'The village was as broke and starving as every other damned village in Westeros. They had nothing of worth; no resistance either, unless starving guards too weak to lift their swords count. Unable to collect what he believed was owed to him, Lord Lannister ordered us to burn the village to the ground. So off his _noble_ knights went; pillaging, burning, and raping all the women they could find.'

Sansa gasped in horror at his words; her meal long forgotten. 'The minstrels always seem to miss that little detail whenever they sing songs about men's valor in battle,' the Hound rasped; his eyes distant and cold.

'Of course my brother, the ever _heroic_ Ser Gregor led the attacks. Such a brave man he was; only cowards use fire as a weapon, and ravage little girls,' Sandor spat. His large hands gripped the flagon of wine so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Sansa could almost feel the blind rage pouring off his person, it terrified her. She placed a hand on Lady's shoulder for assurance.

Taking another drink the scarred man seemed to calm as he breathed a heavy sigh.

'Your father was there too, along with a few of his men. I'm sure noble Lord Eddard Stark never told you that bit either,' he rasped as he gave the maiden a wry look.

Sansa stared at the Hound in disbelief. Why did he always insist on being so hateful? 'My father would never participate in such things!' she fiercely protested. The words had come unbidden, catching her by surprise for she was not brave like her sister. Yet the young maiden knew she could not stand by and allow this man insult her father's good name.

'No he didn't, little bird, and neither did I,' the Hound agreed, clearly nonplussed by her outburst. 'Your Lord Father refused to participate, even demanded that Lord Baratheon stay out of it too.' The scarred man gave a harsh laugh. 'The fat lord actually listened to him too, if you can believe that!'

'Aye, I had my own orders same as the others; but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I may be a kinslayer, perhaps even a monster, but I'm no coward, and I sure as all hells am no rapist! I pay for it proper, I don't take what is not mine to have,' he growled in disgust.

'So while my Lord and his cowards were off unleashing seven hells, I went to find some place that was still standing to get piss drunk instead. That's when I found my _loving_ brother trying to beat and ravage some terrified young pup. Poor girl could not have been older than two and ten-'

'My lord, surely you can spare the lady of such details!' the maester cut in his voice thick with indignation. Like Sansa, he had heard far too much already. The Hound scowled at the old man causing his scars to twist in a grotesque fashion.

'The little bird has thicker skin than that. She's got wolf's blood in her after all,' he growled before draining the last of the flagon and throwing it against the hearth. It shattered loudly, causing Sansa to jump in shock.

Sandor continued as though the maester never spoke.

'I caught him unawares and killed him before could—harm the girl further. Would have rather he burned alive; but I'm no fool, I know an opportunity when I see one.'

'Lord Tywin was furious, wanted my head for killing one of his best men. I told him what he could do with his sword, the village, and his damned knights. Buggering coward couldn't even bring himself to challenge me. Instead he sent word to all the nearby villages claiming my brother died a hero's death; defending the village, and even that girl from my hand! Seven hells, they all believed it too; would have even given my brother a proper funeral and crypt to bury him in; had I not burned his body first and claimed his head for a prize .'

The Hound fell into a brooding silence, leaving Sansa to consider the truth spoken. She knew not what to say, for kinslaying was a grave sin in the eyes of the gods, both old and new. Had it been any other man Sandor Clegane would have been hailed a hero, and deemed chivalrous for his actions.

'I have offended you, little bird,' the Hound said quietly after minutes of silence had passed between them. 'If you wish me to leave, you need only to tell me to go.' The resignation in his voice was evident. She could not help but feel badly for the Lord; he deserved a better ending than exile and a sullied name.

'You have caused me no offense my Lord. You are a good man, whose intent was noble. The gods are certain to look upon you with mercy,' Sansa said in gentle tones, her fear momentarily forgotten.

The Hound did not bother to respond. Instead he reached for another flagon and softly cursed upon realizing he had emptied it prior.

'Go on girl, eat while your food is still warm,' he said motioning to the feast before her. 'Hot Pie will take it to heart if he sees that you haven't touched your food. Gods know that boy whines enough without you adding to his _woes_ ,' he said as his mouth twitched with a hint of a smile. Sansa did her best to comply, though her appetite had long since waned. Neither spoke another word until the servants had cleared the table and parted from them. Only then did the Hound break the silence.

'You're welcome to explore the keep as you wish. You're not a prisoner, little bird; this is as much your home as it is mine. The sooner you get comfortable and settled in the better,' he began. His voice was oddly quiet, and his expression almost shy.

'You alone are the Lady of this keep-' his voice trailed off as he furrowed his brow, clearly struggling to find the words he sought. 'I want you to feel at home here.' He said, struggling to meet her gaze. In that instant Sansa saw the man behind the beast and felt her fear slip away.

'I am grateful to you for your kindness. You are a good man, a-'she began in kind tones. The Hound would have none of it.

'An ugly man, a monster and a beast,' he rasped. Sansa bit her lip.

'You are not a handsome man, for I cannot lie. But you are no monster, nor a beast,' she quietly admitted. 'There are many men who are fair of face who are far more deserving of those names. I'd prefer you, with your scars, to any who are beautiful in flesh, but whose hearts are filled with cruelty .'

Sandor's eyes met Sansa's own and in them she saw a storm of emotions; none which she could fully comprehend. A moment later, the Hound rose to his feet and departed without a second glance or word spoken. The maester promptly departed after him, leaving Sansa alone with only her thoughts and Lady for company.

So the night passed and bled into morning.


	6. The Library

* * *

The days bled into weeks and the weeks became months, as Sansa adjusted to life within Clegane Keep. Remembering her lessons as a child the young maiden worked hard to ensure everyone who lived there was comfortable and happy. _Respect is not something freely given, it must first be earned. Care for your people like they were your own children, and you will never need fear the loss of their respect,_ her father often said. Sansa took her father's wisdom to heart as she set about her duties as Lady of the Keep. Her kind heart and eagerness to help others complete even the most menial tasks had left its mark on her people. It was not long before the maiden was loved by all who lived there. Under her humble guidance and gentle care, the old keep was transformed from a desolate fortress into a warm and welcoming abode.

By day, Sansa's path rarely crossed the Hound's. Her duties often kept her within the confines of the castle walls, while his own ensured much of his day was spent out in the blustering cold. Every so often, while gathering wood from the storage sheds, Sansa would catch a glimpse of the burned warrior sparring with his men in the practice yard. The sight of him fighting left the maiden with mixed feelings of fear and awe, for the Hound was a formidable warrior. She shuddered to think how her father, brother or even her cousin Jon would fare against a man such as him.

Upon one such occasion, Sansa had caught sight of Sandor attacking one of the stuffed practice targets while riding his war horse, Stranger. The force of the blow had caused the straw quintain to explode, showering the yard with pieces of straw, wood and sackcloth. The men cursed loudly in shock, but it was the soft sound of Sansa clapping that had caught the Hound's attention. Garbed entirely in battle armour, even his scarred face was hidden behind a helmet fashioned after a snarling dog. The giant man was a terrifying sight to behold, like the great beast men from Old Nan's tales. Reminded of her visions of before, Sansa felt a strange sense of pride in his unbridled strength. Upon seeing her smile, the Hound gave a bow of his head, causing the jaws of his helmet to move as though in acknowledgement. Turning back to where his men sparred, Sandor continued to train as though Sansa were not there. With his face hidden, she could not say if he was pleased or annoyed by her interruption.

After that day, whenever she helped the servants fetch firewood the young maiden would always find the scarred warrior diligently training in the yard . When time permitted she would watch as he sparred. Sandor fought with a ferocity and skill she had seen in very few men. No matter the weapon he wielded, the Hound was a force to be reckoned with; it came as no surprise that he was both feared and respected in the battlefield. Watching him fight reminded Sansa of the heroic tales her brothers used to enjoy; the great battles fought to save the realm and the mighty warriors who emerged victorious.

Every evening the Hound would join Sansa as she supped in the small solar. Seated at the far end of the table he would drink his wine and watch her; always mindful to keep his burns hidden from her sight. When sober, Sandor was a quiet man; when drunk he was entirely verbose. Though he lacked social graces and cared not for court politics, he was always honest with her. It was not long before the young maiden came to enjoy his company, for in his own way, Sandor was a true man of honour. His burns, though ugly to look upon, never once troubled her. It was the blind rage that flashed in his grey eyes whenever he spoke of knights or his brother which terrified her. Such hate and anger Sansa had never witnessed before in a man. She knew not how to heal him of the pain that made him so hateful of the world; this too, broke her heart .

It was in the third month of Sansa's arrival when the longest snow storm of the winter so far descended upon the Keep. It had been over two weeks since she had seen the night sky covered in a blanket of stars, or the glitter of snow when the winter sun gazed upon the land. Only a wall of white could be seen beyond the windows of her bedchambers as the eerie howl of the winter winds filled the heavy stone walls .

It was midday when Sansa found herself staring down the darkened hallway of the keep's northern wing; just beyond her bedchambers. With Lady by her side, and a torch in her hand she contemplated whether or not to explore it in detail. It was the last region of the keep that she had yet to visit; the one the maid servants and even the elder maester had warned her about. The Keep's northern wing was considered a haunted place, and was best avoided.

 _Don't tell me you believe that shite about spirits roaming the halls too!_ the memory of the Hound's words that morning replayed in her mind as she began her journey down the darkened hallway. _There are far greater threats beyond these walls, than anything in here girl._ His gruff assurances did little to ease her trepidations; even the Hound avoided the northern wing. Yet his assurances did little to sate her curiosity either, Sansa longed to learn the secrets that it held, and the mysteries that lay beyond.

The majority of the chambers were in various states of disrepair and decay leaving Sansa feeling a bit disappointed. Dusty empty rooms with half rotted chairs and old tables decorated with cobwebs were not at all the sort of mystery she had in mind. Mindful of her duties, the young maiden took note of what needed to be replaced, and began to clean the chambers that were still considerably intact. What little she could find in the old rooms hinted that the northern wing of the castle may have once been the living quarters of the keep's original owners. Nearing the end of the long hallway the young maiden saw what appeared to be three small bedchambers; the sort that belonged to children.

Curious, she stepped into the first bedchamber and discovered much to her delight a broken toy, shaped as a wooden knight, strewn about on the floor. Even in its ruined state she could see it was once a finely crafted piece of work. Sansa wondered who resided in this small room; had it once belonged to the Hound, or his dead brother Gregor? Across the first bedchamber was another room. The ruined embroidery of flowers on the tattered bed sheets revealed it once belonged to a little girl. Resting on what had been a pillow was a moth eaten form of a little doll, the sort Sansa had enjoyed as a child. As she held the ruined toy in her hands the young maiden heard the sound of a little girl's laughter. The bedchambers belonged to the phantom she had seen three months prior in the rose gardens. Whispering a prayer to the Mother, then to the Stranger, Sansa returned the doll to its resting place and moved onwards.

The last of the Clegane children's bedchambers was just beyond a small solar, where the children were most likely taught to read, write, and play. It was spartan, save for a large half rotted bed and an empty bird cage that lay on its side, half buried by snow that had blown in through the large broken window. Upon closer inspection, Sansa noted the bed sheets, what was left of them bore dark stains that resembled blood. Disturbed by the sight, the young maiden made a hasty departure back into the hallway.

This time the sound of children's laughter could not be mistaken. Sansa stood watchful as beside her Lady began to whine. Resting her hand on the dire wolf's head, the young maiden sought out the phantom girl she had seen three months prior. The flickering light of her torch revealed nothing save Lady's and her own shadows.

_Sansa._

From the walls, Sansa heard a woman whispering her name. A moment later the sound of faint footsteps, one of an adult, the other a child, could be heard walking away from where she stood. Only one room remained unexplored at the end of the hall, but the young maiden could not bring herself to move. Sansa remembered her father's words; how her mother and her little brothers had guided him to safety from the snowstorm. Was Mother here to protect her? Or was it something else that brought her from beyond? Then what of the child's footsteps? Was it Rickon or perhaps Bran? Sansa's heart ached as tears stung her eyes. How she missed them, and how could it be that they had returned?

_Come this way child._

This time there was no denying that it was not her mother's voice that she heard echoing down the dark halls. Beside her, Lady continued to bark, though she remained by Sansa's side. The torch in her hand began to flicker violently as though a wind unseen, and unfelt, threatened to snuff it out. A prickle of fear ran down the maiden's spine as her eyes flickered to the bed chamber with the blood stained tattered sheets.

Lady continued to bark loudly, her tail wagging eagerly as she paced eagerly as though it were all but a game. It was then that the young maiden saw what she could not moments ago. Smiling at her and gently petting Lady's fur was none other than the little girl from the ice-rose gardens. Beside the child stood a woman; tall as Ser Brienne of Tarth, and as beautiful as the Maiden. The phantom of the lady smiled kindly at Sansa and immediately her fears slipped away.

With a grin the little girl motioned her to follow and soon was running down the hall, disappearing through the door of the last chamber she had yet to explore. Lady immediately followed the child towards the door where she eagerly barked and scratched at the wood frame. Sansa soon joined her dire wolf, pausing only to study the grand door before it. It was made of redwood with trimming that was carefully painted with faded, yet delicate, images of roses intertwined in ivy.

'What lies beyond this door?' she asked. Only silence answered her question; the beautiful maiden and the little girl were nowhere to be found.

Sansa approached the vast door with caution; uncertain what to expect. About to turn the handle, the young maiden caught sight of something unexpected. Carved into the wooden door was a simple, yet poetic message written in an elegant hand:

 _Dearest (the name had been scratched out),_  
May your spirit feed on bread of knowledge,  
And drink the wine of dreams. 

Stepping inside, Sansa found herself in a small aged study. Large shelves filled with books she had never seen before decorated the edges of the room, while a worn yet elegant rug covered much of the stone floor. A fireplace sat unlit at one end of the room with two large chairs in front of it. Across from it was a large paned window, where there sat the most beautiful harp that the young maiden had ever seen. As her fingers danced over the delicate strings Sansa smiled sadly to herself. Like the songs she had once loved, she had long since forgotten her skills at playing the harp. The young maiden could almost hear the Hound's raspy voice softly whispering in her ear, asking for the one thing that she could no longer give.

_Will you sing for me, little bird?_

Every night since the first night she had dined in his presence, the Hound asked for a song, and every night Sansa would politely refuse. 'My pardons, but I can no longer recall the songs of my youth; nor do I have the voice to sing them anymore,' she would sadly explain. The scarred lord never got angry, nor tried to demand a song; he would simply breathe a sigh and quietly depart from the small solar. As her eyes studied the eloquent beauty of the harp, Sansa decided she would find a way to remember all that she had lost. The library was certain to have tales that could be put to music.

Turning away from the harp, the young maiden noted that the library was well kept. Despite the thin layer of dust that covered the floors and shelves, someone had been mindful to care for the books themselves; the bindings were well oiled and clean. Thoroughly pleased by the unexpected discovery, Sansa, an avid reader, soon sought the shelves for good books to read.

Not long after, Sansa was seated beneath the vast window; entirely lost in the realms of old legends and forgotten tales.

'Tired of my company at long last girl? Too cowardly to tell me to my face, so you decided to hide from me in here instead?'

The harsh sound of the Hound's rasping voice caused Sansa jumped in fright. The book she had been fervently reading moments ago flew from her fingers landing with a soft thud on the floor. 'Answer me!' he growled. The young maiden was swift to her feet, instinctively dropping to a polite courtesy, her expression a mix of fear and confusion.

'My pardons, my lord, if I have offended you I am truly sorry!' she stammered, unable to meet his enraged gaze.

'Spare me your titles, and buggering curtsies. Do you really think you could hide from me, and in my own keep? You're a stupid little bird aren't you?' he rasped.

Sansa stood to her full height as a sudden rush of courage coursed through her body. It was as though another woman were speaking the words that came from her lips. 'If I no longer sought the pleasure of your company, I would have bid you leave, as you have asked of me upon many an occasion,' she politely but firmly said as she held his gaze. 'I truly meant no offence. I was exploring the northern wing this past noon when I stumbled upon this study. I must have forgotten the time when I began reading one of its books,' she softly confessed. Had her mother been there, Sansa was certain she would have been sternly chided for not being more mindful of the time.

The Hound fell silent as he glanced to the floor. The giant man looked as awkward and as embarrassed as Sansa felt. 'You never came to dinner. Your food—its cold now,' he muttered as he gathered the book she had dropped on the floor and offered it to her.

As he relinquished the book to her, Sansa's fingers brushed against the Hound's own. Briefly, her hand lingered on his as a profound emotion overcame her. There was no fluttering of the stomach, no starry eyes, no quickening of the heart. It was a connection that ran far deeper than these physical signs, the beginnings of something that only her spirit could understand, though her own conscious mind could not. When Sansa's eyes met the Hound's own, she knew he had felt it too. Her dire wolf nuzzled her head against the young maiden's hand, as Sansa accepted his unspoken apology with a smile. The moment as quick as it came, was lost.

'Do you read?' she politely asked as he held his gaze.

'Are you asking if I can read? Or if I enjoy it?' the Hound said as his burned face twitched. Sansa immediately regretted her words. He laughed amused by her embarrassment. 'The answer is both yes and no,' he answered with a smirk.

'Those are my grandmother's tales,' he said as his eyes fell to the tome in her hands. 'She wrote them so that her children, and her grandchildren, would always know who and where they were from.' Sansa's fingers gently caressed the soft leather cover as she contemplated the scarred man's words. The book held more than mere fanciful stories; it held the secrets of Sandor's forefathers, and the life they had lived beyond the northern wall .

'The library pleases you, little bird?' the Hound's voice drew her thoughts forward. Sansa nodded her assent, watching as he silently moved through the room. The study though old, and forgotten, was lovely and the young maiden could envision the beautiful sanctuary it had once been and could be again with proper time and care.

'I've never seen so many books in one place before; I don't think I'll ever tire of the mysteries within this place,' the young maiden admitted with a smile.

Seemingly satisfied by her answer the Hound gave a nod to the door. 'Come, the hour is late. I'll have one of servants light the fire in your chambers, and get Hot Pie to prepare something hot for you to eat,' he rasped.

'If it pleases you, I should like to remain here a little while longer for there is much yet to see,' Sansa replied.

The scarred man gave a snort. 'Have it your way then, girl. I'll have a servant light a fire here then,' he said.

'I thank-you, but that won't be necessary. I wish not to needlessly trouble, or frighten them,' the young maiden said. 'I know most will not venture into this wing because of the spirits that wander these halls.'

'Trust me, My Lady. They fear me more than any spirit,' the Hound replied with a wry smile.

Sansa furrowed her brow but she knew better than to argue with him once his mind was set. 'Then you have my gratitude,' she graciously said.

'No need to thank me girl. They're the ones doing the work,' he said departing for the door.

'Will you return?' she called out in hope.

The Hound paused, his back still turned to her and his head bowed. 'Would that please My Lady?' his voice was quiet, yet Sansa heard him clearly.

'Yes, it would,' the young maiden truthfully admitted as her cheeks grew warm.

Sandor briefly glanced back at Sansa, his expression oddly vulnerable. 'I will do as the Little Bird asks.' He then turned away and swiftly departed. Not before the young maiden caught sight of the tiny smile that graced his scarred lips.

True to his word, the Hound returned, bringing with him a maid servant who promptly started a fire in the hearth, and set out fresh hot food for Sansa to enjoy. Sandor having already eaten instead drank Dornish sour from a fresh flagon. The old maester was there as well, to act as the young maiden's chaperone; he was mindful to remain unobtrusive.

Together, they remained in the study, discussing all manner of things until the storm had settled and the winter sun had risen once more.

So began the first of many pleasant evenings they enjoyed together in the peaceful sanctuary of the forgotten library. There the beginnings of a strong emotional bond silently continued to grow, until even they could no longer deny what their hearts had known all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** This chapter is/was inspired by the lovely caroh99 whose exploration of Sandor's relationship with his grandfather in her tale How Fragile Is the Heart is the reason why I wrote this chapter. So this one is for her too!


	7. Heirlooms

The hour had been early when Sansa received a long delayed letter from her sister Arya. The message, though dated, did her heart good, for it reminded her that life still continued beyond the walls of Clegane Keep. Smiling to herself, she read, then re-read, her sister's letter enjoying all that she had to share. Though she missed Arya greatly, Sansa was pleased to know that her sister was happy with her life, and fulfilling her dreams of becoming a knight.

It had been five years since Arya had left Winterfell to train under the female knight Brienne of Tarth, yet she had not changed a bit. Having learned of Sansa's arrangement to remain as Lady of Clegane Keep, Arya, like their elder brother Robb, was fiercely protective of her big sister.

 _Ser Jaime says the Hound is one of the fiercest fighters in Westeros. Ser Jaime also says that Sandor Clegane is a kinslayer who kills children in sport,_ she wrote. _I had a plan underway to ride to your rescue; got as far as boarding a ship when he caught me. Ser Dimwit then told Lady Brienne of my supposed 'escape.' She claims it's my duty to respect Father's decision and that I have to remain on the island until I finish my training._

_As if I'd leave you in the clutches of a beast like the Hound!_

_Ser Dimwit of course agrees with her though he teases Ser Brienne that she's acting like a 'wench' who clucks like a hen over her chicks! He's always taunting her to get her to pay attention to him. It never works, only it provokes her to anger which makes for a miserable training master. When he isn't trying to be a right royal prig, Jaime follows her about like some love sick pup! It's disgusting! Seven hells, I hate that man!_

With great joy, Sansa spoke of Arya's adventures to the Hound upon finding him in the training yard. She was mindful to make no mention of Arya's accusations or concern. Sandor laughed upon hearing of her little sister training to be a knight; he laughed harder upon learning of Ser Jaime Lannister's obvious infatuation with Ser Brienne of Tarth.

'Ser Fuckwit has finally grown up and taken it out of the family! Love to see the look on the old bugger's face upon learning who his prized son's lady love is!' Sandor roared with laughter, leaving a confused Sansa longing for an explanation that never came.

Arya's letter was not the only message Sansa had received, her father had sent a raven informing her that Lord Baratheon had annulled her betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon. According to Lord Robert, Joffrey had already contracted a new betrothal to another lady, the daughter of a dornish lord. Her father wrote no further on the matter, save to say that the materials procured from House Baratheon had since been returned. He also expressed his gratitude to Lord Clegane for his generosity. The supplies he had sent over the months were arriving safely much to the joy and relief of the villagers.

Lord Eddard also spoke of the events that had occurred within the village and Robb's new role as a young lord. The remainder of the letter reflected his love for Sansa, and concern for her happiness. Unshed tears came to the young maiden's eyes for she could almost hear her father's voice in the words she read. Though many miles away, the warmth of his letter had left her feeling as though he were near.

Some hours later Sansa found herself reflecting over the annulled betrothal with Joffrey Baratheon. She was uncertain how to take the news, the last time she had seen Joffrey they were but children. He was a handsome boy filled with ideals once so similar to her naive dreams. She wondered if he was still the same romantic idealist she had known as a girl, or if the winter had robbed him of such innocence too. Though relieved at the release of obligation, she felt oddly guilty because of it as well. Though she meant Joffrey no harm, Sansa was no longer the naïve little girl he had dreamed of marrying all those years ago.

That evening, Sandor received a raven of his own. The maester spoke not a word as he made his presence known to them in the library where they sat discussing legends of old. When the old man politely asked the young handmaiden who stood as Sansa's chaperone to leave she knew something was amiss.

_Dark wings, dark words._

Sansa could almost hear old Nan's whispered words in her ears as she watched the elder Maester give the Hound a small rolled piece of paper. Sandor frowned in silence as he read the raven's note. Sansa could see the rage building in his grey eyes and felt her heart sink. The young maiden felt a shiver of fear run down her spine; not for herself, rather for the man who stood before her. With the message read, the Hound departed from the library taking with him the old maester.

After that day, the scarred lord spoke not a word of the raven he had received, but grew increasingly sullen and withdrawn. Concerned for Sandor's well-being, Sansa inquired of the maester what the news had been only to be met with a sad look and silence. So she held her tongue, though her heart was wrought with worry for him. The trail to the godswood became well-worn with the prints of her boots and Lady's paws from her regular visits. At dinner the Hound was silent and pensive; there were no more teasing words, tales of the hunt, or even hints of a smile. The only time he spoke was to ask for a song, a request she could not fulfil with her heart so heavy, and the summer long forgotten. Yet it was his absence from the library that wounded Sansa most. Every night she would approach the worn door and pause with baited breath; waiting, listening, and hoping for some sign that he was waiting for her.

Sometimes Sansa would imagine he was inside, seated by the hearth, with a flagon of dornish red wine in his hand. _Have any new stories to share, Little Bird?_ he would rasp, as a twitch of a smile graced his lips to the sight of her. Yet the library was always dark and empty. Only an empty jug of wine that sat collecting dust on the floor by the fire served as a reminder that he had once been there. The young maiden's evenings were still spent in the library as she read tales of old while her direwolf Lady slept by the fire. All the while, she pined for the pleasant evenings shared in Sandor's company.

On the seventh day after the raven's arrival the wishes of Sansa's heart was finally answered. For the Hound had once more sought her company in the small study.

'I have something for you,' Sandor rasped upon entering the library. Behind him the old maester stood silent and unobtrusive as always.

The young maiden had been buried in a book when the familiar rasp of his voice drew her out of her reverie. Swiftly rising to her feet Sansa faced the scarred lord, her thoughts a mix of joy and concern. Though he hid it well, she could see the exhaustion in Sandor's grey eyes. He looked as though he had not slept in days; it did little to ease her troubled thoughts.

Before she had a chance to speak, the scarred lord was placing a bundle wrapped in grey silken cloth into her hands. Confused by the unexpected gesture, for a moment Sansa forgot her courtesies as his hands briefly enveloped her own small fingers. Carefully, she began to unfold the material revealing a small sheathed dagger hidden within. Even at a first glance, Sansa could see that great skill had been put into the blade's creation. The scabbard was elegantly carved with exquisite images; its hilt though simple in design was perfectly suited to fit her fingers. As she withdrew the dagger from its sheath the young maiden breathed a gasp of surprise. The blade was crafted out of obsidian.

'Does My Lady approve?' The question was both hesitant and hopeful.

Sansa knew not how to respond for she was uncertain of his intentions. Nevertheless, a proper lady always remembered her courtesies. 'I, thank you, it is an unexpected, and most thoughtful gift,' she confessed. The relief she saw in the Hound's eyes was difficult to ignore, as was the underlying weight of sorrow.

'I had Gendry fashion the blade's hilt so as to suit your small hands. The boy's a piss poor swordsmen but he's a master of his craft,' he explained.

'This is Dragonglass; where did you find such a thing?' she said as her eyes fell to the finely crafted dagger in her hands.

'The blade once belonged to my grandmother; and to her grandmothers before her. It would have been passed onto my sister had it not been for Gregor. You're a woman of the North, little bird; you deserve a weapon of the North,' he rasped.

'But I know not how to wield such a blade,' she softly confessed.

'Then it is time you learned. The world is full of killers and even a pretty bird must sometimes bare her talons in order to survive.' The sorrow in his voice weighed heavy on Sansa's heart.

'I am no killer, nor have I any desire to become one.' The maiden began. 'If I must wield a weapon, then I ask that I learn under your tutelage. Though you know how to kill, you are a good man. I would rather follow the footsteps of a warrior who knows honour, than a man who kills for sport,' Sansa answered as she readily held his gaze. Sandor was the first to look away.

'Bugger that. I'm no more a good man, than I am a man of honour,' the Hound snapped in reply. 'Spare me your romantic ideals little bird. They have no place in this world, save for those books you read. I suggest you retire for the evening, as we'll begin first thing in the morn,' he said, while turning to leave.

Sansa clutched the blade's scabbard feeling more than a little disappointed at his brisk departure. She could not understand how the Hound could be so kind one moment, and so abrupt the next. Just as he was about to depart, the young maiden spoke out.

'Sandor—please stay,' she said. Sandor looked back to her in surprise. It was the first time she had ever called him by name. 'It has been so long since we've last spoken. I miss our discussions,' Sansa quietly admitted as she struggled to meet his gaze. _I miss you,_ her mind whispered in afterthought as her cheeks grew warm.

They talked well into the night and did not depart from each other's company until the winter sun rose in the grey sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Also there is a quote here that comes directly from GOT. As such credit goes to the god of this ASOFAI series GRRM...  
> This particular chapter was inspired by a certain request that zsra187 had made for a little Brienne/Jaime goodness. So this one is for you girl! I hope you enjoy!


	8. The Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Rating:** Current chapter is rated M for Sandor's mouth and because there is a passing mention of rape (Lyanna/Rheagar legend).  
>  **Author's Note:** Also there is a quote here too that comes directly from GOT. As such credit goes to the god of this ASOIAF series GRRM...  
>  Another enormous thank you to weshallflyaway whose support and wisdom helped me pound out this most awkward chapter.

It was two days after Sandor had given her the obsidian dagger when Sansa finally began her training with it. The Hound had been insistent that she learn as soon as possible, however other important matters took precedence, rendering him unable to fulfil his wish.

Now she stood in the center of the hall attempting to straighten the cuffs of her shirt. Despite the early hour, Sansa was wide awake and feeling entirely out of her skin. The riding breeches and boots felt uncomfortable to the young lady who was more accustomed to wearing dresses. She could almost hear Arya's laughter, and imagine her teasing Sansa for looking so silly. It made her miss her little sister all the more.

Ahead the straw quintain stared at her with its faceless mockery. The large tables and chairs that normally filled the room had been pushed against the stone walls; providing ample space for movement if required. Not even the warmth of the hall's two fireplaces could ease Sansa's growing nerves. She feared hurting not only herself, but the Hound as well.

'Extend your left arm girl,' Sandor rasped, drawing the young maiden out of her thoughts. Sansa did as she was instructed; pensively watching as the warrior deftly strapped the dagger's scabbard to her wrist and forearm. There was a time when Sansa would have been terrified to let a man such as the Hound near her, much less touch her. Now being in such close proximity to him left her feeling both nervous and content. As she gazed upon his face, she noticed that the Hound looked as self-conscious as she felt.

Since their first visit to the library several months prior, something had changed between them. Every glance stolen, every hint of a smile shared, and every touch, no matter how brief or rare held a weight that had not been there before. Though she could not fully understand the depth of her growing affections, Sansa could not deny that Sandor had grown dear to her heart. Nor could she imagine her world without him in it.

Upon completing his task, the scarred lord's fingers lingered longer than considered proper against the maiden's forearm as their eyes briefly met. Save for her direwolf, Lady, they were alone in the great hall; such moments were rare at best. The sounds of footsteps were soon heard passing by the hall causing Sandor to politely withdraw his hand, leaving the Sansa with a mix of relief and disappointment.

'You'll have one advantage; no one will ever suspect you of wielding a weapon,' he rasped. 'So you better make good use of it. Now draw your blade girl.'

Sansa did as she was told. The dagger, though small and light, still felt clumsy in her hands. It was difficult for her to imagine herself ever wielding a blade properly, or with the sort of ease her brother or Arya had.

'Hold the blade with a steady, firm grip.' Sandor instructed. Sansa did as she was told, but her inexperience left much room for improvement. At the sight of the young maiden's attempts to wield the blade, the Hound burst into laughter. She frowned as her cheeks burned. 'You're holding a dagger, girl, not a dinner knife!' he teased with a grin causing his scars twist in a grotesque fashion.

_'A proper lady knows when to speak, and when to remain silent; when to step back, and when to fight.'_

The memory of her mother's voice whispered in her ears forcing Sansa to swallow her pride. Sansa silently swore to learn what she could from him, no matter how bitter the lesson. Politely she asked how it was to be held. No longer mocking, the towering man gently readjusted her grip. Stepping back he motioned to the straw quintain with a slight nod of his head. 'Strike it!' he ordered.

Uncertain what to do, Sansa began to repeatedly stab at the straw form before her. _'Stick them with the pointy end!'_ her sister would have said had she been witness to the sight. Sansa was equally certain that Arya would have laughed at the sight of her big sister haphazardly attempting to _kill_ the quintain before her. Even she could see that the attack was poorly done.

Sandor breathed a heavy sigh to her awkward attempts, but did not chide her for it. Instead, the giant man quietly approached, taking his place behind the young maiden. He was mindful to try and maintain a proper distance despite his task. Engulfing her right hand with his own, the Hound patiently showed Sansa how to properly strike.

'Aim for the eyes, little bird; the eyes or any opening between a man's armour. Strike hard, and strike fast. Make it count!' he rasped. Sansa did not know what was more distracting, the familiar rasp of his voice tickling her ear, or the warmth of his hand now resting over hers. He took a step back so as to permit her the chance to attack the straw figure again. Despite her best attempts, Sansa could not maintain the proper formation of attack that Sandor had shown her moments prior. Frustrated, she continued to strike, feeling foolish and ashamed at her lack of skill. Just when she was about to give up, the Hound placed a heavy hand over hers, forcing the maiden to pause in mid-action. Glancing back to him, Sansa braced herself for the mocking that never came.

Standing behind her, Sandor leaned in to guide her sword hand into the proper position for a deft strike. 'Like this,' he softly rasped in her ear. Though he tried to maintain a respectful distance, it was difficult for Sansa to ignore the warmth of his breath caressing her cheek and the bristle of his unkempt beard tickling at her throat. The Hound smelled of tanned leather, horses, sweat, and stale wine. It was not an inviting scent, but it was quintessentially him; to the maiden it was a smell that she had come to associated with _home._

'Adjust your body, so your assailants have less chance of striking your proper,' he said. Flooded with a rush of strange emotions, Sansa struggled to remain focused. Moving her feet as instructed, the maiden felt as though she were made up of elbows and knees. _If only I had Arya's agility,_ she thought to herself.

'Almost, but not quite—'Sandor murmured in low tones. Placing a hand over Sansa's left hip he carefully adjusted her body so as to face the quintain in a proper fighter's stance. Biting back a gasp of surprise, Sansa marvelled at how such a powerful and large man could have such a gentle touch.

Sansa froze upon realizing that their bodies were now touching. She could hear the soft hitch in his breath and felt the rise and fall of the man's chest against her back, despite the black leather armour he wore. The Hound too remained unmoving; his arms tense and hands perfectly still; barely pressed against her left hip, and over her right hand. Feeling his eyes on her, the young maiden leaned in slightly so as to brave a glance back to meet his gaze. When her blue eyes met the grey orbs of his, the quintain, the dagger, and even the large hall seemed to fade away.

Sansa had long since come to see Sandor for the man he was, not the Hound the kingdom believed him to be. Nevertheless, when it came to her feelings for him, there was still much that Sansa could not fully comprehend. Sandor Clegane was not a handsome man, but he was strong, kind and brave; he was also her dearest friend. In that instant, the young maiden finally understood what she could not before, so much became clear, although much yet remained uncertain.

As her eyes fell to his lips, Sansa felt her troubled thoughts slip away. The frustrations felt moments prior were entirely forgotten as she found herself wondering how it would feel to kiss his mouth. Would his lips taste of the dornish sour he loved so much, or something more sweet? What sort of kiss would they share? Would it be like the tales of old, or something entirely different? Sansa's heart raced and her breath quickened at such thoughts. In all of her twenty years she had never been properly kissed; leaving her feeling both nervous and excited at notion of sharing her first with Sandor.

The Hound's gaze never faltered as he cautiously slipped his fingers around her petite waist; while his grip over her sword hand grew more confident. A moment later, Sansa slipped her fingers over the hand that held her waist, causing him to draw her closer. A gentle smile graced her lips as she felt the Hound's beard and scarred flesh brush against her cheek. Immediately, Sandor froze in place as he held his breath. Though nervous and entirely conscious of herself as well, Sansa leaned in, her eyes fluttering shut as their noses lightly touched. All the while her heart fiercely pounded, while her own breath caught in her throat. Sansa could feel Sandor's lips hovering above her own, and knew he was about to kiss her, when suddenly someone cleared their throat loudly. Feeling disappointed and guilty, she quickly drew back at the sight of the old maester.

'Seven hells! What the fuck are you doing here old man?' Sandor growled in rage, as he stormed towards the maester.

'A raven has been received confirming that Lord Joffrey Baratheon has declared war on House Clegane for the _kidnapping_ of Lady Sansa Stark. His army is expected to be here within the next few days,' the elderly man quietly said. Ignoring the Hound's outburst he took a step forward from the entrance. In his hand was the rolled parchment of the raven's message. Sansa felt her heart drop upon hearing the news. She knew Sandor's men were only two hundred strong at best; the Lannister and Baratheon armies, were said to be numbered in the thousands. Immediately, she thought of the innocents, the families and smallfolk who called the old keep home. They would be the first ones' to suffer the young lord's taste for vengeance. This was the warning that had set Sandor on edge several days prior.

'My Lord, what of Lord Robert Baratheon, Joffrey's father? He would never consent to such an action!' Sansa exclaimed as fear gripped her heart.

Sandor heard not a word spoken, as he grabbed the old scholar by the scruff of his tattered black collars. The sound of his maester's chain jangled loudly in the giant hall as the Hound hoisted him off the floor, pinning him against the stone walls. Panicked, the old maester cried out in shock, his feet kicking wildly in the air. The giant warrior shook the man violently as he shouted in rage.

'Are you truly so fucking stupid old man? I told you to shut the fuck up about that little shit's plans! My lady doesn't need to know—'

'That is enough! I will not be an excuse for your rage, Ser!' Sansa cut in; her voice quiet, but firm. Witnessing the old maester being violently attacked had robbed the young maiden of her fear. The words had come unbidden to her lips, yet she did not regret them.

Immediately, he released his grip on the maester causing the old man to drop to the floor in a heap. Coughing violently, he clutched his throat struggling to catch his breath. Rushing to the elder scholar's aid, Sansa looked to Sandor in horrified disbelief. The giant man turned away in shame, unable to meet her gaze. He left the hall without another word spoken.

With great care, Sansa helped the struggling maester to his feet. The obsidian dagger and the memory of the kiss she had almost shared with Sandor were furthest from her mind. 'Maester, I beg my Lord's pardons, his behaviour was—'

'Inexcusable, but expected,' the elder man quietly answered as he caught his breath. 'He's scared my Lady. You know not what the Lannisters are capable of; he does. Though he will not speak of it, he fears for your safety, and the safety of his people.'

'I don't understand, Lord Baratheon annulled my betrothal to Joffrey because he was already betrothed to a lady in Dorne! My father spoke of it in his letter to me. Why would he permit his son to do this? Surely he knows I was not abducted, but came of my own accord!' Sansa exclaimed. The old man frowned, clearly troubled by her questions. 'Please good maester, I need to know the truth, so that I may do what I can to protect our people,' she pleaded.

'Lord Robert Baratheon is dead, my Lady. His son, young Lord Joffrey is lord of their villages now, and he means to claim you as a prize,' he explained. Horror gripped Sansa's heart as she stared at the elder man. 'In his mind, the Hound has stolen you away, kidnapped you-'

'And raped me,' Sansa softly murmured to herself.

Like all who lived in the north, she knew the legends of the late Lady Lyanna Stark, and her Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Like her father, the young maiden was also aware of Lord Robert Baratheon's obsession with her cousin's deceased mother. Joffrey had spoken of it during their first and only meeting, Sansa could still recall his fevered promise, that he would never stand by and let any man take the woman he loved from him. Years later, the young lord was now trying to make up for what he saw as his father's mistakes, Joffrey saw history as repeating itself and was seeking to change the ending this time so as to fit his pride.

Only now, it would be Sandor and his people who would pay the price for Joffrey's madness.


	9. Remember Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Rating:** Current chapter is rated M for Sandor's mouth, and because there is a passing mention of rape.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** Also there is a quote here too that comes directly from GOT. As such credit goes to the god of this ASOFAI series GRRM...

When Sansa stepped into the library that evening, it was a pale blue and white ice rose floating in a glass orb that first caught her attention. Alone it sat, in the center of the small table that overlooked the large hearth. She knew not what sort of manner kept it afloat, hanging as it did, in mid-air. Only upon further examination did she note it was because the orb had been filled with some sort of clear liquid.

The ice rose bloom was beautiful to behold; its petals perfectly formed and its stem strong, and without any blemish. Sansa could almost imagine its sweet cool scent, and the feel of its silken petals beneath her fingertips. Gingerly, she touched the glass orb's surface noting it was cool, almost cold despite its close proximity to the fire. She wondered how the bloom came to be trapped within its glass confines, for there was no lid, or any other means from which one could place the flower inside.

'It is for you, My Lady.' From behind her Sansa could hear the quiet rasp of the Hound's voice. She was surprised that he had chosen to visit her in the library that evening. After attacking the maester he had taken care to avoid her presence for the remainder of the day. Reminded of his poor behaviour that morning, Sansa momentarily struggled to greet him as a proper lady should. There were some matters that she believed even he knew was entirely unacceptable; attacking helpless old men being one of them.

_'His lordship had spoken to me today about his behaviour this morning. In his own way, he even apologized for it.'_

The elder maester's words of the afternoon replayed in her thoughts, soothing the last of her lingering disappointment. It gave her hope that the old gods, and the new, had heard her prayers; for she often prayed for Sandor's rage to still, so that he would know peace. Nevertheless, Sansa had no desire to change the scarred lord, nor had she any wish to make him into a different sort of man. He was nothing like the handsome or noble knights she used to dream of as a little girl, yet he had found a special place in her heart. Sansa both cared for, and respected, Sandor far too much to ever ask that he change who he was for her sake.

'I thank you, it is beautiful,' she whispered as she turned to face the towering man before her. Sandor was dressed in his usual black armour, and in his hand he held a flagon of wine. Sansa could smell the dornish sour on his breath and knew he was well on his way to drowning in his cups.

'The maester crafted it for you. Something to remember this place,' he murmured, _To remember me by,_ his grey eyes seemed to say, as he struggled to meet her gaze.

'To remember this place? Are you asking me to leave?' Sansa whispered, feeling her heart lodge itself in her throat, robbing her of breath. The Hound's eyes briefly fell to his boots as he too struggled to find the words to continue. Behind him, the old maester stood with hands clasped in front of him. His stoic expression betrayed none of his thoughts, only the weight in his eyes revealed the truth.

'There is no other choice. You will leave for Winterfell, first thing in the morning. I will have two of my most trusted and skilled men join you for the journey.' His words were forced and recited; as though he had mulled and fought with himself over them for longer than necessary.

'You cannot ask this of me. I swore I would remain here as lady of your keep, and I mean to keep my word,' Sansa exclaimed in disbelief.

Sandor took a long drink from the flagon he held. The logs of the fireplace crackled and snapped, as the fire made twisted shadows of the large book shelves that surrounded them. 'Little bird, this is one fight we cannot hope to win,' he began in sombre tones. 'I have no banners to call upon, no allies to fight alongside me and my men. What house would come to the aid of a kinslayer who supposedly slaughtered and raped his way into his brother's inheritance? This battle will do little else but buy you enough time to make your escape,' Sandor rasped with a heavy sigh; he looked far older than his one and thirty years.

Sansa's heart sank at his words. Despite his belief otherwise, she knew what had to be done; even if it meant she would never see him again. 'You once told me that I am the Lady of this Keep, that this is my home. That means they are as much my people, as they are yours,' she said in quiet tones. 'And I will not abandon them in their hour of need. Nor will I be the reason for their needless suffering-'

'Do not argue with me on this matter! This isn't one of your damned fairy tales, girl!' Sandor growled in warning.

 _A lady's courtesy is her greatest armour._ Old Nan's voice whispered in her thoughts, as Sansa struggled to bury her fear. Smoothing her skirts, the young maiden attempted to still her shaking hands before continuing as though the Hound had never interrupted. 'It is I, that Lord Joffrey seeks to claim,' she began. 'I will do as you ask and leave, but I will not return to Winterfell. I will go to his lordship, and I will plead his mercy on your people, in exchange for my hand.'

Sandor's grey eyes flashed in rage just as he threw the empty flagon of wine against the hearth. Panicked, Sansa staggered back, causing her body to collide with the heavy wooden table behind her. The Hound grabbed her swiftly by the shoulders, thus preventing Sansa from falling back or toppling the table over. Terrified by his outburst and the blind rage she saw in his eyes, she cried out in fear. Immediately Lady was by her side, ever ready to make her attack. Despite her fear, Sansa knew she was in no danger; the Hound had never, and would never, hurt her. Placing a hand on the dire wolf's shoulders she forced Lady to refrain. The giant wolf continued to bare her teeth at the scarred man, but her warning fell on deaf ears.

'You're not listening, girl! You know nothing of this boy or of his family! Nothing! But I do! Do you really believe that he will willingly accept your pretty words little bird? Men like him care nothing for mercy, only for vengeance, and blood!' he shouted in her face as his grip tightened around her arms. 'That little shit will beat, rape and break you until he's had his fill. Then he will toss you aside like a broken toy for the rest of his men to do as they please!'

'Please stop—you're hurting me!' she said, feeling his fingers dig into her skin. Immediately, Sandor released his grip, though he did not move from where he stood. Sansa struggled not to panic at the terror of his words, or the poisoned rage and hate she saw in his gaze. She feared not only for herself, but for Sandor, the old maester, Hot Pie, Gendry, even Micah the butcher; for all who called Clegane Keep home.

 _Our way, is the old way._ Sansa found courage at the memory of her father's words. Recalling her courtesies, she forced herself look into the Hound's stormy eyes as she spoke. 'I cannot abandon—I will not abandon either you or our people. Tell me what I must do, and I will do as you ask. But do not ask this of me,' she whispered.

The giant man took a step back as though he had been hit. His eyes once so filled with fury and hatred, now held a sorrow the likes of which Sansa had never witnessed in him before. 'Please my lady, I beg you to leave this place; if you will not do it for your own sake, than do it for me,' he pleaded. 'If I must die killing that boy, or any other man who dares to harm you, then so be it. But at least let me die in peace knowing that you are safe and well.'

Unshed tears came to her eyes, for her heart broke at the thought of losing Sandor. Not wishing to cause him further pain, Sansa reluctantly consented to his request. She knew that his pain in asking her to leave was no less than hers in agreeing to it. In silence, the Hound turned away from her and departed from library. Alone with her sorrow and trepidation, Sansa retired to her bedchambers for the night.

_In her dream, Sansa stood alone in a field of snow, while in her hands she held an ice rose. The bloom was beautiful to behold; as beautiful as the flower that floated in the glass orb that sat on her night table. Beneath her boots, dead autumn grass peeked out through the white blanket of soft snow, as in the far distance tall trees stood with their naked branches shivering in the wind._

_Nearby the sound of battle was heard, causing her to look in the direction of the noise. Sansa gasped in horror to the sight that greeted her. The snow, once a pristine white, was now stained dark red. All around her, as far as her eyes could see was the bodies of countless corpses; not a one human. In the distance, she caught sight of movement and began to approach hoping to find a survivor amongst the dead. Upon hearing the sound of her boots crunching loudly in the snow she began to tremble in fear. She knew all too well the sort of creatures that were drawn to such noise. Instinctively, her eyes kept watch over the contorted lifeless forms of wild dogs, battered lions, and even stags as a shiver ran down her spine._

_Swallowing hard, Sansa cautiously approached what she now recognized to be the clearing from her childhood dreams. There stood the scarred Hound of her dreams; beside him was the smaller, yet still large, form of a dire wolf. Before them, in the distance, a pride of lions rushed at them with teeth bared and claws ready. The giant Hound was already badly wounded; rivers of blood pouring out from the deep gouge on his leg. The dire wolf was faring better, but Sansa could see its exhaustion and knew that neither stood a chance against the army that was closing in on them._

_'Please no!' Sansa cried out, her own safety forgotten as her fear for Sandor and the nameless wolf, whom she believed must be her father, consumed her thoughts. Rushing towards them the maiden cried out their names, pleading with them to run but it was too late. Before she could reach the two great beasts they were already dead; slaughtered and devoured by the lions they had fought._

_Falling to her knees, Sansa wept over their bodies, while petals from her ice rose fell silently onto the blood stained snow._

She awoke with tears in her eyes and a strange gust of a winter wind nipping at her bones.

'Little bird-'

'Little bird, are you awake?'

Lost in the memory of her sorrowful dreams, Sansa wondered how it was that she could hear the Hound's familiar rasp when he lay dead in her arms. Soon she recognized her surroundings, and realized the breeze she felt was due to her bedchamber door being wide open. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she noted the shadow that stood towering over the side of her bed. Frantic, she sat up swiftly drawing the blankets around her, feeling entirely aware of her state of undress. She did not consider why Lady had not warned her of the stranger in her chambers. Reaching for the obsidian dagger the Hound had given her days prior, Sansa wished that she had paid more attention to Sandor's lessons, and less to the feel of his hand against her own.

A heavy hand grabbed her wrist, forcing Sansa to stop in mid action. Frozen with terror, she almost screamed in fright when she caught sight of the man's terrible burns reflected in the pale moonlight. A breath later, and she was hit with the stench of sweat, stale wine, vomit and boiled leather. 'What are you doing here?' she whispered in disbelief using her free hand to tighten the blankets around her body. It was not the first time he had seen Sansa in her nightshift; even now, the memory of her first morning at the Keep still made her cheeks burn. Brought up to be a proper lady she had no intention of being caught in such a state again.

Releasing his grip from her wrist, the Hound reeled where he stood. Grabbing the bedpost he half sank, half fell, to his knees before her. Sansa had never seen him so drunk in all of her time at the Keep. The realization made her frightened for him, Sandor was in no condition for battle, certainly not if Lord Joffrey and his men were to arrive ahead of their time.

'I want you to promise me-' he pleaded, grasping Sansa's knees as though she were the only thing with which he could steady himself. Even on his knees, the Hound still towered over her, so that he had to look down to meet her eyes. 'Promise me, little bird—that one day you will return. That I may see you one last time,' he rasped. Stunned, Sansa stared at him in disbelief, uncertain what to make of her dream followed by Sandor's desperate plea.

'Promise me!' he shouted suddenly, causing Sansa to jump.

Not even wine could dull the weight of sorrow or defeat that Sansa saw in his grey eyes. It broke her heart to see him in such a state. Swallowing hard, the maiden fought back tears as she reached out, taking his marred face into her hands. Beneath her fingers, Sansa felt a light moisture on his cheeks; she knew that it was not sweat. Meeting his gaze, she struggled to hide her own sorrow, for her heart weighed heavily with the thought of losing Sandor to Lord Joffrey. Though she longed to know that she would see him again, and prayed for his survival, she knew better than to make demands that no man could ever hope to keep. Instead, she spoke the one promise she could keep, or would die trying.

'I swear to you that I will return, be it tomorrow, a fortnight, or even months from now I will one day return as you have asked of me,' she softly said. The hint of a smile that crept upon his lips made his burns violently twitch. Yet his joy was fleeting, for he gazed down at her with a look that she was only too familiar with. Even before Sandor spoke, Sansa already knew what he would ask.

'Then will I have that pretty song you promised?' he softly rasped; his voice filled with hope and despair. This time Sansa could not refuse.

'When I return, you will have as many songs as your heart desires,' she gently answered in reply. With a shuddering sigh, and a shaky smile, the Hound carefully rested his head against her lap, as Sansa gently ran her fingers through his tousled black hair.

She knew not how long Sandor had remained there, for when she awoke the following morning the giant man had since left. Only her memories and the ache of her heart provided any proof to Sansa that it had ever occurred at all.


	10. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Rating:** Current chapter is rated M for graphic violence.  
>  **Author's Note:** Also there is a quote here too that comes directly from GOT. As such credit goes to the god of this ASOIAF series GRRM...

It had been two nights and three days since Sansa had last seen Sandor, and as long since she had departed from Clegane Keep. The night before she had left he had slipped into her bedchambers drunk and heartbroken, begging her to one day return with a song on her lips. The Hound never saw her off the following morning. True to his word, Sandor had sent Mycah, the Keep's master butcher, as well as the captain of his guard, and Mycah's wife to act as her handmaiden, to accompany her on the journey north. Though hurt by his absence, Sansa understood his reasons; farewells were such a permanent gesture. It was easier to pretend she was merely visiting the nearby towns to deliver supplies rather than leaving to elude the coming siege. It did little to ease her heart, as she ached for Sandor's presence, just as much as she feared for the safety of him and their people.

Despite the early hour of afternoon the sun was already setting in the grey sky. All who hailed from the north knew that was not a good omen.

_'…There came a night that lasted a generation. In that darkness, the Others came for the first time…'_

The memory of old Nan's voice whispered on the wind sending a shiver down Sansa's spine. She knew if they were to make it to the next winter village by nightfall, they would have to hurry.

With a polite nod, the maiden gave the order for Mycah's wife, her personal handmaiden, to open the wooden cages that held the old maester's ravens. Immediately, the crows took flight, their wings flapping loudly as they fought against the winter wind. All the while, Sansa's dire-wolf, Lady, watched on intently as though she too understood the importance of the words they carried.

_Sometimes the greatest battles are fought and won without a single drop of blood spilled._

The old man had said upon receiving her request. Sansa prayed that his words would prove true. Each winged messenger was destined for a specific village, carrying with them words of warning, and a plea for help. Soon, the dornish lord of the south, and her father in the north would learn of the mad lord's treachery. Sansa had prayed to the old gods and new that the messages would arrive into the right hands. She also prayed that the village lords and masters would be receptive to her words; she knew the smallfolk would be the first to suffer Lord Joffrey's vengeance. Though Sandor was doing all he could to protect them, he was severely outnumbered, and ill-equipped to face an army the size of Joffrey's own. Their people would need all the help they could receive if they were to survive.

After the ravens had flown out of sight, Sansa faced Mycah, the Captain and her handmaiden who watched her intently. Drawing a deep breath she cleared her thoughts and spoke of her plans for their journey north.

'The big man won't like this one bit Milady. He was very specific in his orders to take you straight to Winterfell,' the captain said upon learning of Sansa's desire to visit some of the more prominent villages within the region.

Mycah, her handmaiden's husband, had been far less polite in his assessment. _'The Hound says he'll rape our corpses with our own blades if we don't get you home straight away.'_

She knew they feared the wavering loyalty of the neighbouring smallfolk; as most were easily corrupted by the promise of Lannister gold. Nevertheless, Sansa was not about to lose hope. Sandor Clegane was not a rich man by any means, but like his forefathers of the north he knew the importance of taking care of his smallfolk. Iron and steel were the metals of winter, not gold. Just as food, blankets, and timber were far more prized than any amount of jewels or fine silks. By ensuring the villages under his protection had plenty of winter _treasures_ on hand he had also ensured their survival. In doing so, he had unwittingly earned their loyalty, gratitude and love.

'If Clegane Keep falls, it won't matter one way or another when I arrive to Winterfell. If delaying our journey ensures our families and friends can live to see the spring than I will take as long as it is necessary before returning to my father's village,' Sansa calmly replied. The matter was never discussed again.

Upon her command, the maiden and her guardians began to visit some of the larger villages who had received her ravens. Though she was loath to use her father's name to instil respect and a listening ear, Sansa feared it may be necessary. House Clegane though directly responsible for many of the local villages' survival and livelihood was still considered a disgraced house amongst some ruling lords. House Stark by contrast, though small, was a house that even the southerners respected. To her surprise and relief, most villages were more than willing to help the people of Clegane Keep without ever learning her relation to Lord Eddard Stark. Though most had little by way of food, supplies to offer, they sought to aid where they could.

It had been three days since Sansa had departed from the last of the winter bound villages, and almost a fortnight since she had last been _home_. Though exhausted, she found hope that with supplies and aid being secretly delivered to Clegane Keep, the people would survive the worst of Lord Joffrey's siege. Soon the Dornish lord of the south would receive word of young Lord Baratheon's betrayal. Gods willing, he would distract Lord Joffrey with an army of his own, or cut off all trade routes that led to his men; anything to force Joffrey's army into a position of retreat and end the siege without too much bloodshed.

Onward they rode as the long night fell upon the land. Though Sansa sought to find shelter they were too far away from any village or hamlet. Soon even Mycah's wife, a woman gifted with skills of tracking, could no longer determine from where they came or where they were headed, for the blowing snow and the darkness hid much of the landscape. Yet they continued their journey, using the last of their precious firewood as torches as the days passed. Eventually, the winds grew so violent that not even their torches could remain lit. Lost in a land hidden by night and snow, Sansa and her small entourage had little choice but to take shelter wherever they could.

The small thorny bushes and barely visible dead grass offered little protection from the approaching storm. Recalling the legends she heard from old Nan and the tales Sandor's grandmother had written years ago, Sansa instructed her small party on how to build shelters using the horse blankets and blocks of ice-snow. Upon the completion of their makeshift shelter they all soon succumbed to their exhaustion for no longer were they able to discern night from day. It was the first time Sansa had slept since departing for the north a fortnight prior.

In dreams, she walked through the winter fields of Sandor's home. There the corpses of animals, the very animals from her previous dream, still lay strewn about. In the distance a pride of lions encircled a giant, yet badly wounded, war hound; her Sandor. Barring his teeth, the scarred beast struggled to rise to his feet; a desperate attempt to continue the fight. The Hound's forearm was badly burned, freshly blistered and bleeding while one of his hind legs lay limp, a huge red gash decorating its black fur. Heartbroken at the sight, Sansa rushed forward calling Sandor's name; her steps bringing her no closer than before. Desperate, she pleaded with the lions to leave him be, to take her instead. The dire-wolf was nowhere to be seen.

'Little bird-'the great beast rasped through bloodied teeth; his eyes filled with such sorrow. 'You promised me that you would return. Where are you, little bird? Have you so soon forgotten me?'

Rushing towards the wounded hound, the pride's leader, a pale haired lion with a pathetic stringy mane and strange green eyes, viciously attacked. Digging its claws deep into the Hound's chest, the mangy beast tore out his heart.

Screaming Sandor's name, Sansa fell to her knees in devastation, as hot tears poured down her frozen cheeks.

With a strange roar that sounded like the crackling of a thousand sheets of ice, the green eyed lion lunged at Sansa. The creature's ice cold claws wrapped tightly around her throat; snuffing out her breath before she had a chance to scream. Terrified and frantic, she struggled to break free, but was unable to move as the lion held her pinned to the ground. She could feel the beast's fur against her throat and noted with horror that it was as cold as ice, like a corpse long frozen beneath the winter snow. Baring its razor sharp teeth; stained crimson with the Hound's blood, the creature spoke:

_'You're mine now!'_

Sansa knew with sudden clarity that the heart the lion had torn out of Sandor's flesh had been her own.

She awoke with a start to the darkness and the feel of a frozen, yet heavy weight on top of her body. Something or someone was using her father's obsidian spear necklace to choke her to death. Though blinded by the storm and the night, Sansa knew her assailant was a whitewalker. Panicked, she tried to pry the ice demon's claws off the necklace's leather straps, but to no avail. Her mind foggy from lack of air, vaguely registered the obsidian spearhead that lay limp against her collarbone. Only she could not recall the _charm's_ importance. Weakened by lack of food, rest, and now air, Sansa soon saw stars dancing behind her eyes. All around her, the wind blustered and blew as hard snow cut at her wind burned cheeks.

The blowing snow shrouded most of the moonlight, but not quite enough to hide the terrifying visage of the pale faced Other. Sansa briefly caught sight of the creature's glowing pale blue eyes. Never had she seen such hatred and rage, not even in Sandor's stormy gaze at the mention of his brother. She could hear Lady growling and snapping her teeth somewhere close but knew not where the direwolf was located, only that she was near.

 _'Only flame and obsidian can return the others to the darkness from whence they came.'_ A voice whispered on the wind; strange and yet so familiar. Sansa vaguely wondered how the phantom woman of the haunted halls had found her. Fumbling, her frozen gloved fingers tried to grasp the ancient weapon that was remained limp against her throat. From the corner of her eyes Sansa could almost see the towering maiden and the little girl who loved the ice rose gardens watching on in silence. After two failed attempts, she was finally able to grab the small black spearhead. Drawing on the last of her energy, the maiden tried to stab at the creatures frozen flesh as Sandor's familiar rasp whispered in her thoughts.

_'Aim for the eyes, little bird; the eyes or any opening between a man's armour. Strike hard, and strike fast. Make it count!'_

Nevertheless the ancient weapon was dull; worn from age and lack of a whetstone. It did nothing save to infuriate the creature who tore off the necklace she held with such violence that Sansa cried out in pain. Freed of her _noose_ Sansa began to cough violently as her breath was restored. Enraged the creature grabbed her by the throat and tossed her aside like a rag doll. Landing hard in the frozen snow, she struggled to get away. All around her the sounds of ice crackling echoed in the night air, she could also hear the sounds of blades being drawn. Tears came to her eyes as Sansa silently uttered a prayer to the Stranger; both for herself and those in her entourage. From the darkness icy claws grabbed her hair with such force that the maiden was yanked to her feet as she screamed in horror and pain.

It was then that Sansa felt the hilt of the obsidian dagger falling into her gloved left hand. The scabbards clasp had broken from the force of the whitewalker's attack.

 _You'll have one advantage; no one will ever suspect you of wielding a weapon._ A surge of energy rushed through her veins at the memory of Sandor's words.

Drawing the blade with her right hand, Sansa ignored the rush of pain she felt as she twisted her body to face the other behind her. In her mind's eye, the maiden could feel the familiar weight of the Hound's fingers slipping over her own, guiding her blade to make the killing blow. Just as his other hand moved her hips so she could strike without exposing her flank.

All that followed, happened so fast that her exhausted mind could barely register it all. One instant, Sansa could see the pale glimmer of moonlight on the Other's ice blade as the creature was about to behead her. The next, the obsidian dagger in her hand was lodged deeply into the Other's throat. The glowing blue eyes that had once stared at her with putrid hate and rage were no longer there. The whitewalker's body, once so threatening, had become nothing more than a pool of cold water that now soaked her winter cloak, and collected at her boots.

Overwhelmed by relief, exhaustion, and the horror of what she had just experienced, Sansa closed her eyes, able to _feel_ the phantom warmth of Sandor's arms wrapping around her body. She was home again, and he was safe; her prayers had been answered. With his name on her lips, Sansa fell faint into the frozen snow; the ice encrusted blade still held tightly in her hands.

Nearby, her companions found themselves caught in a battle of another sort. They awoke to the sounds and cries of men fighting. Yet in the storm they could see nothing; not even the shape of their hands placed before their eyes could be seen in the dark. Only the noise of blades clashing, men crying out in fear or pain and of the abrupt feel of hard armour, and even colder hands pressing against their bundled bodies warned them this was no mummers farce.

Fearful for Sansa's safety they cried out their lady's name; their voices swallowed by powerful gusts of wind. Blinded by the night and the blowing snow, there was little hope of ever finding their lady until the storm settled. Should any injury befall Lady Sansa or themselves, they knew there would be no hope for survival; for Winterfell was many miles ahead, Clegane Keep many miles behind them and there were very few villages between. Desperate to escape the chaos of the invisible battle, they struggled to move onwards; fighting against their unseen assailants every step of the way. With only their weapons and their wits to save them, they could only hope that the gods would be merciful and spare all their lives from the horrors of the endless night.

Little did they realize that in the confusion of the long night, they had been turned around and had now returned to the war torn fields of Clegane Keep.


	11. A Promise Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Rating:** Current chapter is rated M for mention of past violence and dark themes.

Sansa awoke to the darkness of night and the heavy weight of something warm splayed across her stomach. Behind her, someone or something was tugging at her frozen hair. For a brief moment she thought it was Arya, who as a child used to put twigs and mud in her hair while she slept. Annoyed, Sansa murmured a threat to tell Father, before she registered the icy cold of her water soaked garbs and cloak. Believing the Others had returned, she cried out in fear. Struggling to sit up, she wildly slashed at the cold air with the obsidian blade she still held in her shaking hands.

The weight across her stomach immediately lifted as Lady leapt off her; a confused whine escaping her mouth. Frantic, Sansa scrambled to her own feet, slipping and stumbling over the icy pool of water that had once been the whitewalker. Suddenly, she felt something nip her shoulder hard, not enough to hurt but enough to cause her to cry out again in terror. Whirling around with dagger in hand, Sansa attempted to bravely face the creature that had _attacked_ her. The giant shadow of a horse snorted loudly as if mocking her for her faked courage.

'Stranger?' Sansa balked in disbelief. The great charger gave another snort as he bumped his muzzle gently against her forehead forcing her to take a step back.

The snow storm had calmed, but the light winds were still bitingly cold. Though the moon was full and bright it was difficult to discern her surroundings. The presence of the Hound's war horse in the middle of a northern field made little sense to her. For she believed that they were many miles from the keep; there was no reason for Stranger to be there. Even so, her roan red courser was nowhere to be found; neither were her companion's horses nearby, there was only the warhorse.

Noting then that Stranger lacked his rider Sansa felt a shiver run down her spine as she recalled her visions. Softly calling Sandor's name she held onto the futile hope that he was near. Yet only the whistle of the winter winds answered her. Growing ever fearful, Sansa called for Mycah and her handmaiden, as well as the Captain of the Sandor's guard. When no one responded, she was filled with dread.

Swallowing hard, Sansa forced herself to bury her fears as she sought out the remnants of their encampment. Surely they had only gotten separated from her because of the storm and the attack. Shivering beneath garbs frozen and wet from the whitewalker she had killed, Sansa fumbled about trying to find the satchel that contained her dry clothes. The storm had hidden much of the encampment beneath a blanket of snow, even the makeshift lean-tos they had built were almost entirely buried. The storm had also erased all evidence of her compatriots' possible whereabouts.

In the distance, she could see flickering lights against a large black silhouette that blotted out the night stars. Immediately, she knew that it was some sort of castle or keep. Confused by the sight, she wondered as to her location, for she knew there were no stone fortresses for many miles yet. Beside her Lady paced anxiously, while Stranger stomped his hooves loudly in anticipation. Concerned, both for herself and for her missing companions, Sansa grew wary of her surroundings. She wondered if they had made it to the nearby fortress or if they had found rest in the villages below. None of it made sense to her for she knew they were fiercely loyal, both to her and Sandor. They would not readily leave without her, not unless something had happened to them.

Absently her fingers felt for her father's obsidian necklace for it often soothed her during the early days of her arrival at Clegane Keep. Noting its absence she realized that like the rest of her belongings, the obsidian spearhead was now well buried beneath the snow. Though weakened from lack of rest, food, and the cold Sansa returned to where she had fallen in the desperate hope of finding her father's last gift. To her immense relief, the leather straps of her broken necklace were found sticking out from a large snowdrift. Overjoyed at the sight, Sansa fumbled with fingers thick with cold to tie the necklace to her throat.

Her joy soon turned to grief and distress, for glistening in the moonlight by her bedroll, was the shattered remains of the glass orb that Sandor had given her on the night of her departure. The ice rose it had once contained was now nothing more than a broken stem while its perfect blue petals lay strewn about across the snow blown field. The vision she had been haunted by many nights ago was becoming a reality.

 _Oh winter child; you are stronger than you know._ A voice whispered on the wind. Sansa knew it to be the phantom woman who haunted the castle's old halls. _There is still time, but you must hurry!_

Fighting back tears, Sansa approached the temperamental black destrier, calling her dire-wolf to her. She knew the horse did not take kindly to anyone save his master; even the stable boys knew better than to approach the great charger. Yet the young maiden had found that the warhorse had no qualms with her, especially whenever she offered him the rare apple or a mitten full of oats.

 _'You spoil him girl. Keep that up and he'll get it in his head that he's some prince, not a warhorse!'_ The memory of Sandor's teasing made her heart ache for him all the more. Silently, she uttered a prayer to the Mother for his safety. Today she had no apples or oats to spare, for the last of their provisions had been consumed two days prior. She could only hope that Stranger would accept a kind hand, and be willing to carry her all the same. With a deep breath and another prayer to the gods, Sansa cautiously mounted the warhorse. To her surprise and immense relief, the war horse gave no resistance. Once settled in the saddle she caught sight of a large swathe of cloth of what had been Sandor's worn black cloak. Her heart leapt to her throat as her sight blurred with tears.

_There is still time, but you must hurry!_

The phantom's words replayed in her mind, as wind continued to blow strong and without mercy; causing the recently settled snow to twirl and twist about like ghosts writhing beneath the pale moonlight. In the distance the naked branches of the trees swayed, as the tips of the tall grass by Stranger's hooves rustled. She could see strange formations in the snow and knew they were not rocks, for the sight before her was no different than the one she had witnessed in her dark dreams. With trembling hands, the maiden wrapped the cloak tightly around her small form as the Hound's familiar scent flooded her senses. Burying back her fears, Sansa imagined it was Sandor's arms and not his cloak that was wrapped around her, holding her near. Finding strength in the illusion, she urged the horse onward. Eager to be going, Stranger was soon galloping across the snow covered fields with Lady running alongside him.

As the snowy fields flew by under Stranger's hooves, Sansa saw the corpses of many a soldier scattered upon the ground. Recognizing most of the sigils on the shields, Sansa soon realized they were none other than soldiers who served under the Lannister and Baratheon banners. Many battered shields bore the combined symbol of the stag and lion; direct warriors under Lord Joffrey's command. She also saw other sigils; boars, badgers, oxen, and manticores amongst others; the very animals she had seen in her dreams. There were others as well; warriors she knew to be Sandor's men. In that instant, she knew that she was no longer on the path that led north; rather she was back in the fields of her lord's keep.

'Gods be good,' the young maiden whispered as hot tears began to spill from her eyes. The dream had become a reality, for she had too late returned home. _Hurry child!_ the wind seemed to hiss, as Sansa leaned into Stranger to enable the beast to move faster. The warhorse, despite its immense size, was as swift as it was powerful.

As they sped towards the old keep, Sansa ignored the feel of the horse's hooves trampling over the corpses of soldiers and villagers alike. Some part of her knew that soon they could become wights but the maiden was far too focused on getting back to Sandor and their people to worry about the dead or what would become of them.

Sansa knew not what to expect when Stranger with Lady alongside raced through the mangled portcullis of the keep; the chaos that met her had not been it. All around, fires brought on by archer's arrows burned, as the sounds of the dying and wounded filled the night air. Bodies of both the dead and the living littered the snowy courtyard as healers moved quickly through the mangled forms seeking those they could save. Recalling the horrors of her visions, Sansa dismounted from Stranger as though entranced. Walking between the bodies of the wounded and fallen, her eyes took in the macabre scene before her; but her mind registered none of it. For her heart was consumed with the need to save her beloved from the horrible fate that awaited him. With ethereal grace she moved through the courtyard; her boots carefully side stepping the many bodies that lay burned, mangled and otherwise destroyed beyond recognition. The remainder of Lord Joffrey's soldiers who had failed to retreat, were soon captured or killed by their now victors. A distant part of Sansa knew the battle was over, yet there was no joy to be felt to the victory; only dread, fear and sorrow. Silently, she mouthed words of prayers to the old gods and the new for his safety.

'My Lady, we thought not to see you here so soon,' Sansa was drawn out of her pained reverie as the elderly Maester spoke, placing a hand on her shoulder.

'Where is Sandor? Take me to him immediately for I must see him and know that he lives,' she whispered in pained tones; her eyes unfocused and distant. The old man bowed his head as he breathed a sigh.

'My Lady, I know not where his lordship is, I was not present at the battle but with the wives and the children,' the man apologized. Absently, Sansa's slipped a hand to her throat where she held her father's necklace. Her other hand tightened her grip around the Hound's old bloodied cloak.

'It is not too late, but we must hurry!' she said in a voice that sounded distant, almost strange to her own ears. Suddenly, Sansa was no longer standing in the courtyard, rather she was entering the old ice rose gardens. To her surprise, she could see everything as clearly as though it were day instead of night. Even with her eyes well-adjusted to the darkness she had never experienced such clarity of sight. Her sense of smell too grew sharper; the pungent stench of blood, fire and death threatening to overwhelm her. In the sanctuary of the gardens the corpses of soldiers lay, littered in snow that had once been so pearly white and was now stained dark red while small fires burned melting patches of snow and consuming the last of the dead summer grass. Even some of the beautiful rose bushes were now burned, blackened smoke choking out the starry sky.

It was then that Sansa saw Sandor's lifeless form laying in the blood-stained snow and golden grass. Before him were the headless bodies of a young man clad in red and gold, and a strangely clad warrior, whose sword even now burned with green flames. By Sandor's side, watching over him, was another warrior, a small armoured man who wore a wolf's helmet and carried a shield bearing the Stark sigil. From behind the helm the warrior met her gaze and spoke.

_Lady?_

Upon hearing the warrior's muffled voice, Sansa found herself back in the courtyard. Without another word to the maester, the maiden picked up her skirts and ran for the rose gardens. Upon entering its gates, the maiden felt her heart sink at the sight. Everything was as she had witnessed it moments ago. Amongst the blood, the burning grass and the melted snow, Sandor lay perfectly still. Dark blood flowed freely from a gaping wound on his leg, while his left arm was blistered and bloody from a wound caused by fire.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sansa thought she heard Arya's voice calling her name, just as some distant part of her could feel Lady's head nuzzling her hand in comfort. Yet none of it was acknowledged for all the maiden knew was that she had come too late.

'Sandor! Oh gods please no!' she cried out as she fell to her knees before the Hound's wounded form. There was so much blood; even in the darkness Sansa knew much of it was Sandor's own. Her body shook with sobs as she cradled his head in her lap. Though his face was bloodied, caked deeply into the cracks of his scars, she lovingly kissed every inch of his flesh as her tears spilled, intermingling with the blood of his wounds.

'Please Sandor, you must not die! I swore to you that I would one day return, now I beg you to open your eyes so that you may see that I was true! Please do not die, for it is you whom I love, and you whom I cannot live without!' Sansa hoarsely whispered between kisses, as she ran her frozen fingers through his dark hair.

 _Then will I have that pretty song you promised?_ the memory of his raspy voice whispered into her thoughts; pleading for the one thing she had denied him. Though weighed with sorrow, Sansa sought desperately to recall the songs she once knew; so that in death at least he might know peace. To her shame, she could only remember one tune. As tears continued to spill down her cheeks, the maiden softly sang the ribald verses of the one song even her little sister, Arya, knew by heart: the Bear and the Maiden Fair. As the last words of the song were sung, she leaned to kiss his scarred lips; her heart heavy with the weight of loss and sorrow. As she kissed his mouth with all the love she bore for him, Sansa felt the soft warmth of his breath and knew that he yet lived.

'Bring me the Maester-the healers - anyone who can help! My Lord yet lives!' she called out in joy, hoping that the petite warrior with the Stark sigil on their shield was still near. Recalling a little of her goodsister Talisa's lessons in healing, Sansa set about to tend to the worst of Sandor's wounds. All the while, she continued to softly sing the one song she still knew, while in her heart she prayed to the gods to spare his life. Though she knew that Sandor still lived, she was not as foolish as to believe that his life was hanging by anything more than a thread; his wounds were severe, and the loss of blood had been great. So distracted had she been in her task, that Sansa did not hear the approach of footsteps until it was too late.

Startled by the intrusion and expecting another attack, Sansa whirled around to face her assailants with the obsidian dagger in her hand. She was ready to strike any and all who dared to further harm her beloved Hound. By her side, Lady growled with teeth bared, while Stranger remained near stomping his hooves in warning. Yet there was no threat to be seen, for it was only the old maester who swiftly approached; his medicines and materials in hand. Joining him were Sandor's captain of the guard, her handmaiden, and Mycah. Nearby there stood others; a strange looking man with the red and white hair, and the small soldier she had seen earlier in her vision.

Recalling her manners, Sansa expressed her relief at her companions' safe return before thanking the men for their assistance as they placed Sandor onto the makeshift litter they carried. Turning her attentions to the small soldier so as to ask for a name and for news of her family, Sansa instead found herself staring in disbelief. Freeing herself of her helm, the warrior maiden beneath it gave Sansa a fatigued smile as she raised her brow.

'Really, sweet sister? The Bear and Maiden Fair?' Sansa could never have guessed that the direwolf from her dreams would turn out to be none other than her sister, Arya Stark.

With a sheepish smile, Sansa politely told her little sister to _shut-up_ as her cheeks burned. It did her heart good to see Arya after so long. As Arya tightly embraced her, Sansa knew her sister felt the same. Together, they joined the captain, Mycah, and Arya's strange companion as they carried Sandor inside. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, the old maester assured Sansa that his lordship had suffered far worse wounds in the past and lived to tell of it. Holding the Hound's right hand tightly, Sansa silently prayed the old man was right.

By morn, the people's prayers were answered. With the passing of the storm, the siege had reached its end. After Sandor had beheaded Lord Joffrey Baratheon, the young lord's soldiers had lost their courage, choosing to surrender or retreat. Clegane Keep had survived the siege and emerged victorious against the long night.

Two days later the fervent prayers of Sansa's heart were finally answered. For Sandor awoke to the warmth of her gentle fingers intertwined with his own, and the sound of her sweet voice singing him songs of love. As beyond the windows of his bedchambers the sun rose and warm winds from the south carried to them the promise of spring.


	12. Tale As Old As Time (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Rating:** Current chapter is rated M for mention of past violence and dark themes.

As her handmaiden made the last adjustments to her hair, Sansa nervously smoothed the skirts of her wedding gown, feeling both excited and nervous for what was to come. Noting her reflection in the large looking glass she could not help but smile at the sight. The dress she wore had been made for her as a gift by her handmaiden and the smallfolk under her protection. Though simple in its design, it was elegant and beautiful to behold; the young maiden felt every bit like a queen from legend. Finely crafted it complimented her figure, while its dark green shade brought out the fire in her Tully red hair. As her handmaiden placed the grey and white cloak of house Stark around her shoulders, Sansa's thoughts drifted to the past, to all that had had transpired since that fateful long night when the storm had brought her home.

It had been several weeks since Lord Joffrey Baratheon and his men had laid siege on Clegane Keep yet she could still remember her beloved Hound's bloodied and lifeless body lying in the snow as if it were yesterday, just as she could still recall the pungent stench of the funeral pyres made after the battle had been won. It had been Sansa's first order to Sandor's men upon her return to the keep. Despite her overwhelming fear for her beloved's life, she had kept her wits about her. Recalling the legends Lady Clegane had left for her descendants, Sansa had ensured the survivors did not have to face wights, as well as Joffrey's remaining men. Days later she learned much to her immense relief that most of those who fell that night had been young Lord Baratheon's soldiers, only a handful of fighters who served Sandor had fallen to the sword. Their deaths were mourned and honoured by all who lived there, though very few who served in Clegane Keep were related by blood they were as close as any family.

With Arya and the old maester's guidance, Sansa had mended the worst of Sandor's wounds. For days she had sat by his bed side singing what little songs she could recall, while uttering prayers to the gods, both the old and the new, to spare his life. Even after Sandor awoke two days later, he was far from well. Though his wounds were healing, his body had been badly weakened by what he had endured; soon he fell ill with a chill. In fear and sorrow, she watched helplessly as a fever threatened to consume him. The old maester did all he could to heal him but no amount of medicines or cold cloths could break the fire that was burning him from the inside out. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he cried out for his little bird, sometimes even calling her by name; other times he pleaded for his grandfather, begging him to help, to save him. During those terrible moments there was little else that Sansa could do but pray. Holding his hand tightly, she would kiss his fevered brow, and softly sing to him as silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

 _R'hllor owes this one much; his life will be spared, in return for the many lives the man has already offered to the red god,_ Arya's strange companion had said when, at her sister's insistence, Sansa sought him out for help. Sandor's health had been growing steadily worse; to the point when even she could not deny that her beloved Hound would not likely survive. Jaqen, as Arya called him, was a strange sort of man, a killer who held secrets Sansa suspected was as old and deadly as the gods themselves. Speaking only in riddles, he promised to save Sandor's life. Uncertain whether he could be trusted, Sansa spoke to her little sister before permitting the _red god's reward_ to be given. Within hours, Sandor's fever broke and he was well on his way to a full recovery. Overjoyed that his life had been spared, the young maiden showered his face with gentle kisses, as she professed her love for him. With a shy smile and trembling fingers, he caressed her cheek and spoke plain all that weighed on his heart.

When Sansa sought to thank the man who had saved her beloved's life, she discovered that strange foreigner with the red and white hair had long since departed; disappearing into the shadows as though he were never there. Not even Arya could say what had become of him.

Despite Sandor's swift recovery from his illness, she knew he would never fully recover from the wounds inflicted upon him. For all of his skills and wisdom, even the maester could not restore his body to what it had once been. He would forever carry the scars of that fateful night; be it the burns on his arm, or the limp in his walk. It in no way diminished Sansa's love for him.

Even after the fever had lifted, Sansa visited as often as she could. Still too weak to journey to the small library, his bedchambers became their new found sanctuary. Soon their evenings were spent in long conversations with Sansa seated by his bedside, and Arya seated across the room watching on. Though her sister and her beloved often bickered amongst themselves, it was only in jest. Sandor had saved Arya's life from the warrior of R'hllor that Lord Joffrey had hired; his arm now bore the burns inflicted by the man's fiery blade. Arya, in turn, had fought fiercely by his side, helping him defend his people from the young Lord. Though they would never admit it to it, Sansa knew there was a grudging respect shared between them.

Their moments alone, already rare, grew even more so as many, much to Sandor's embarrassment and annoyance, sought to help to ensure their lordship's quick recovery. While the old maester as well as her handmaiden continued to act as her chaperone it did not stop them from stealing kisses as often as they could. Nor was it an uncommon sight for the old maester to arrive late at night to check on Sandor only to find Sansa asleep, still seated in her chair, her head resting against his chest, and his arm loosely wrapped around her shoulders. Arya remained nearby softly snoring in her own chair across the room.

Since recovering from his fever, Sandor had taken great liberties, much to the maester and Sansa's annoyance, to break from his bed rest. It was not long before her Hound was seen carefully limping about the keep, or lingering about the practice yard hoping to train when he thought he could get away with it. A more stubborn and determined man, Sansa had never known. Yet despite her frustrations, she loved him all the more for it.

As the days passed a variety of guests began to arrive to Clegane keep. Sansa's ravens had reached their destinations and soon supplies as well as help were arriving on a daily basis. Ironically, it was Ser Jaime Lannister, along with Lady Brienne who were the first to come to their aid. Believing them there only to collect her little sister, Sansa was entirely surprised by the vast amount of supplies and food they had brought for the smallfolk. Neither spoke much on the matter when the reason was inquired; Lady Brienne admitted that much of the supplies were from Casterly Rock, politely stating that Ser Jaime should be thanked, rather than her. Ser Jaime spoke even less, his words leaving much to interpretation.

_'A Lannister always pays his debts, one way or another.'_

Sansa could not say whether it was spoken as a jape or as a sincere apology. For the wry smirk he wore did not quite reach the strange weight in his eyes. She suspected that she would never know for certain just what he had meant.

This morning, Sansa had found Sandor alone in the garden of ice-roses. Walking through the battle torn garden, she noted the small shrubs that had once been thick and blooming bushes a few short months prior. Several weeks ago there had been nothing but burned branches and black ash; now tiny branches filled with little green leaf buds reached towards the sunny sky. The sight gave her hope that soon everything would be as it once had been.

It had not been the budding plants that truly captured her attention. Clad in his finest armour, Sandor wore a cloak that bore the sigil of his house; the very one that she had sewn for him as he recovered from the fever and his wounds. Her soon-to-be Lord Husband had never looked more fearsome, or more handsome, as he did in the morning light. Hours later, she could still recall the warmth that filled her stomach upon feeling Sandor's grey eyes watching her intently. Joining his side, Sansa had cupped his face with her hands as she rose to the balls of her feet to kiss him full on the mouth. Wrapping his arms around her petite form, the giant man had eagerly returned her kiss with a throaty growl of approval. With such moments of privacy a precious rarity neither was about to let it go to waste; despite the fact that night would mark the end of such formalities.

'The wolf-girl is a buggering fool if she thinks to make Gendry into a warrior. The boy can't deal a proper strike if his life depended on it. Gods, even you wield a weapon better than him,' Sandor had rasped in greeting once their kiss drew to an end.

Sansa had giggled as she rested her head against his chest. 'The poor man is a blacksmith not a warrior, my love! His gift is to create weapons of war, not wield them,' she chastised with a hint of amusement. It was then that she heard the clash of blades in the distance, and caught sight of two silhouettes sparring in the training yard that overlooked the gardens. Had the growing shrubs been the grown blooming rose bushes they once were, they would never have witnessed Arya knocking Gendry's blade from his hand. Neither would they have witnessed Gendry making off with her sister's helmet moments later; the petite warrior hard on his heels. With her cheek resting against his chest, she felt the rumble of Sandor's throaty chuckle. The sound brought a smile to her lips. His laugh was harsh, almost guttural, reminding her of dogs snarling in a pit, but it never ceased to warm her heart.

'Gods be good, Arya is never going to be ready in time for the ceremony,' she had murmured in dismay as she looked back to him. Sandor gave her a gentle squeeze as if in reassurance, before leaning in to steal another kiss. With a hand running through her hair, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and breathed deeply. Sansa giggled as he lightly nipped her throat before kissing his scarred cheek in reply.

'Don't worry about the brat. Your father will make sure she's presentable. If not, Lady Brienne and Ser fuckwit will deal with her,' he had rasped as his fingers drifted from her hair to caress her cheek. Slipping her small hand over his large fingers, she met his gaze as a loving smile played on her lips. In his eyes, she had seen that he was as excited and as nervous as she felt. Today would mark the end of many things, and the beginning of so much more.

It was the sound of someone knocking at her chambers that drew Sansa back to the present. She could hear her father's voice politely speaking to her handmaiden and knew the time had come to depart for the godswood. Lady, ever dignified, remained by her side patiently watching and waiting. Beyond her chambers, Sansa could hear Nymeria, much like Arya impatiently pacing the old hallways; ready to leave on a moments notice.

With a loving smile, Eddard Stark approached, drawing Sansa into a tight embrace. 'You look lovely,' he said as he drew back. 'If only your mother could see you now, she would be so proud,' he added in wistful tones; his smile turning a little sad. Instinctively, Sansa's fingers slipped to the obsidian spearhead necklace she wore as she thought of her brothers and her mother. She could not help but wish they were with her too.

Her lord father had initially come to help the smallfolk, and to see his daughters once more. Her brother, Robb, remained in Winterfell watching over his newly pregnant wife, and the smallfolk he served. Though Sansa suspected Sandor would speak to her father of the future, she never expected that he would properly ask for Lord Stark's permission to have his eldest daughter's hand in marriage. The gesture spoke volumes to Sansa, and she knew, to her father as well.

'I believe the septon is waiting for us in the godswood,' Lord Eddard gently prompted as he offered his arm. Slipping her hand through the crook of his arm, she gave her father a gentle smile as they departed together. Behind them came Arya clad in her best breeches and a grey and white doublet, their direwolves, Nymeria and Lady, and Sansa's handmaiden.

Beneath a great heart tree, the young maiden married her beloved Hound with the blessing of an old septon. In the ceremony, Sansa sought to honour both the old gods and the new for bringing them together. With the exchange of cloaks and vows, Sandor drew her into a passionate kiss causing the vast crowd of people to cheer loudly, and clap in joy. For the scarred warrior and his beautiful bride were well loved by the smallfolk they served. Even Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne had stayed back to participate in the simple, yet joyous event.

Hand in hand, Sansa and her Lord Husband departed for the old Keep where a great feast and a hearty celebration awaited them. Food and wine flowed freely, while bards strummed their lyres and sang songs of old to the smallfolk and nobles alike who drank, danced, and heartily sang along. That night a new song was also sung, a tune that would soon become as renowned as the ballads of old. It was a tale that spoke of a northern beauty, who won the heart of a courageous beast, and how together they had saved his people from a terrible fate.

Blissfully unaware of the songs sung in their honour, the newly wed lovers spent the remainder of the night sharing a song of another sort. Though the winter had been filled with many trials, and the hope of spring had been but a distant dream; together, they found a strength and sanctuary within each other that steadily grew into a love so deep that nothing could put it asunder. With the promise of a fruitful summer, and a lifetime of happiness together, the two lovers drifted off into blissful dreams, wrapped in each other's arms. As beyond the stone walls of their chambers, the birds sang their cheerful songs while the spring sun rose and warmed the land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Because the novels and the wiki is being frustratingly evasive on the matter, I've taken the liberty to follow medieval history customs instead. During the 13-14th century 'green'(blue and red as well) apparently was considered a common colour worn by brides.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Summary:** A Game of Thrones take on the classic tale Beauty and the Beast by Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont. This was written for zsra187.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All this belongs to GRRM and Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont. Am just playing with the characters/theme. I promise to return them safe and sound when I'm done. ;)  
>  **Word Count:** 1807  
>  **Beta Readers:** Where to begin? I have been so fortunate to have not one, but three wonderful and skilled (not to mention knowledgeable) beta readers to read over this fic. A huge thank you goes to weshallflyaway, natadecoco147, and valyriansteel1for making this tale more than a piece of tripe. I owe you gals so much!


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